The Plan
by ArabellaFaith
Summary: Drunk, Sherlock comes up with The Plan: to seduce John Watson in order to keep the doctor all to himself. Things don't go quite the way he'd anticipated... Extremely NSFW
1. Chapter 1

They were drunk. Drunk enough not to be able to walk a straight line, but not drunk enough that they couldn't make it up the stairs to the flat in one piece. It was a near thing for a minute there, but with much ribbing and stumbling, they arrived. They collapsed onto the couch, giggling. It was ridiculous.

Why was it ridiculous?

Oh yes, because Sherlock had only intended for them to get _tipsy_. Tipsy, not drunk, to avoid the dreaded hangover as well as any unfortunate decisions that might be made under the influence. Not that he expected _he_ would do anything rash, but John was another matter altogether. Which was why it was ridiculous that John kept slipping shots of liquor into their beers when Sherlock wasn't looking. It would only get them drunk, and John would do something amusing but which he would regret in the morning-

Actually, it was fine, it was all fine. After all, _Sherlock_ wasn't the one who would wake up with someone else's underpants on his head, or with only one shoe on, or with the scores to a rugby match written on his forehead in permanent ink. _John_ was the one who got himself into those situations. Sherlock just got to enjoy them the next morning. Maybe he could supply a pair of pants and see if he could dare John to wear them over his trousers like a comic book hero.

"Hey, Sherlock, I'm just gonna-" John fell sideways across Sherlock's lap trying to reach for the remote. He sprawled in a manner most undignified, then proceeded to laugh about it instead of apologize and get up. Sherlock giggled again. "Whoopsie," he sing-songed in the most ridiculous way. Sherlock lifted a hand to pat him on the head like a dog but ended up closer to his shoulder. His fingers brushed the skin of John's neck, and John shuddered, twisting away. "Th-that tickles!" he gasped. He immediately noticed the wicked glint in Sherlock's eyes and held up a hand as if to ward off attack. "Oh, no, no-"

Sherlock ignored the shouted protests and ran the tips of his fingers against all the bare skin of John that he could reach, systematically tormenting him with the tickling until John was breathless from laughing. He jerked back, trying to escape, but too much of his weight went sideways and he started to roll off the couch. Automatically, his arms wrapped around the nearest solid object to halt his fall, which just happened to be Sherlock.

They both toppled off the couch in a tangled heap.

"You pulled me over, you… you… neanderthal!" Sherlock had landed partially on top of John and pointed an accusing finger at his nose. John reached an unsteady hand up and grabbed that finger. It took him three passes to actually grasp it.

"Now listen here you neo- nan- you whatever-you-just-called-me, _you're_ the reason we fell. You _tickled_ me!" He said it as if it was a great offense, but the effect was ruined by the goofy grin on his face. Sherlock thought for a moment that the huge, carefree smile made John look rather adorable. It was a passing thought that would have been dismissed before even fully formed, usually, but he blamed the alcohol for the slip.

"I was _trying_ -" Sherlock insisted, trying to pull his finger free from John's grip but only succeeding in changing their hand position. Now their hands were cupped together with their thumbs resting on top. "Trying to pat your head. But you moved. Or I moved, I don't recall."

"I did no such thing. I was just reaching for the remote when the floor tipped up and attacked me."

"I felt no- What are you doing?" Sherlock looked down to where John had pressed his thumb down over Sherlock's. He was starting to count.

"Winning a thumb war."

"A _what_ war?"

"A thumb war. You know. 'One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war.'"

"I certainly do _not_ know. What is the purpose of this war?"

John tried to shrug, but from his position on his back, it looked more like a wiggle. "Fun, the sake of winning, world domination, you know."

"And all I have to do is hold your thumb down with mine?"

"For four seconds. I've had yours for about five hundred seconds now."

"That's a gross exaggeration, John. Besides, starting before I'm aware there is a war on is cheating. That's what you would say, anyway."

"And _you_ would say that half the wars fought are with one party not knowing there's a war on. Or something like that. It's now a thousand seconds, by the way."

"Damnit all-" Sherlock jerked his thumb out from beneath John's and applied all of his considerable brain power to winning the insipid game. Which would have been far more impressive had he not been inebriated and distracted by the way John seemed to be wiggling beneath him again. Still, his fingers were longer, and he certainly wasn't above cheating. They both tugged and pushed, arcing their thumbs around at each other like vipers facing off. Then Sherlock succeeded in hooking his thumb around John's and pushing down. They tussled, and somehow John ended up on top. Sherlock tried to pull his thumb back, but John's hands were stronger. Sherlock twisted his wrist until his thumb finally slipped free, but suddenly they weren't just wrestling with their thumbs, but with their whole bodies.

"Cheater!" John accused him, rolling so that he straddled Sherlock. Sherlock twisted his hips to try and regain dominance, but John pressed his dense weight down and kept him pinned. His wide smile of success was only slightly ruined by his sudden case of hiccups. Sherlock suppressed the urge to giggle again. Really, this whole thing was quite-

Oh.

 _Oh._

John had leaned over to try and silence the giggles that it turned out Sherlock _hadn't_ managed to suppress, and suddenly Sherlock was very aware of a certain part of his partner's anatomy. A very… turgid part of his anatomy. How odd. It was odd, wasn't it? Yes, certainly. Considering his current position, in addition to the amount of alcohol he'd consumed (though Sherlock knew for a fact - from a case, of course - that imbibing great quantities of liquor did not necessarily mean that one was incapable of performing sexually), it just didn't make _sense_.

Except, perhaps it did. After all, how long had it been since John had been on one of his historically disastrous dates? Two months- three? It had been after that case with the purple giraffe, however long ago that had been. But it was far longer than John usually went between shags. So this was just a reaction to not having gotten off in so long. That made sense.

John probably didn't even realize that he _had_ an erection, or he wouldn't be straddling Sherlock like he was. It wasn't as though he was very open about his sex life with Sherlock. He didn't try to hide it, necessarily, but he didn't make the details public and he certainly had never pressed his erection against Sherlock's belly like this. It would embarrass him, if he knew. Surely. Then again, Sherlock knew he was physically appealing. Even for someone like John, he was attractive enough to make an exception for. Sherlock let out an impatient little huff. Not that it made any difference. Sherlock wasn't interested in sex, and besides, it would likely only be another week before John's libido got the best of him and he interrupted one of their cases so that he could go on a _date_.

Or- or maybe that _didn't_ have to happen. Suddenly, the alcohol haze over Sherlock's brain evaporated and it kicked into high gear. He felt as though the physical world around him was going in slow motion as his thoughts raced forward, John leaning closer one millimeter at a time, his lashes taking ten times as long to sweep down in a single blink. And all the while, a thousand scenarios and ideas flew through Sherlock's mind.

Yes, why not? His body was just transport. Pretty enough to the outward eye. And John, well it was better for Sherlock if John's interest was kept inside 221b, wasn't it? The fact that Sherlock had no real desire to have sex was totally irrelevant. He wanted John. No, he didn't want him _physically_ , but he wanted him in every other way, so why not? It seemed like such a small concession to make. Like Mrs Hudson making the tea, or John doing the shopping. Sherlock could just lie back and let John get himself off, and then there wouldn't be any need for annoying girlfriends hanging around. It all seemed so… _convenient_.

Right then. New plan. Seduce John Watson. It wouldn't be that difficult, all things considered. And the scene was already perfectly set. They were drunk, John was horny, and Sherlock knew for a fact that there was lube in John's nightstand. John would use lube, right? No, no, no second guessing. Sherlock had a Plan. It was a Good Plan. Very logical. Efficient. John would never cause Sherlock any serious injury, even while drunk and horny, and a little discomfort had never been enough to scare him off of a scheme. So it was all settled. He just needed to get John to have sex with him while they were still drunk so that the alcohol dulled the nerves of the first time and cleared the way for a regular habit to form.

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts less than three seconds after John had straddled him, the world outside of his head suddenly resuming normal speed. John blinked again.

"I, uh-" Those few seconds seemed to have been enough for John to realize the somewhat compromising situation they were in, and he smothered the drunken smile he'd been sporting and prepared to move. Sherlock stopped him by settling his hands on John's hips. John looked down at him questioningly, not able to quite form coherent enough words. Sherlock pushed his hips up between John's legs.

John gasped, his eyes widening and the bulge in the front of his trousers twitched visibly. Sherlock wasn't hard - in fact, his penis was lying politely against his thigh as it always did - but the gesture still seemed to convey his meaning because John was looking down at him with wide, suddenly lust tinged eyes. His pupils had dilated and his heart rate increased. "Sherl-"

"John." Sherlock cut him off, knowing that he needed to get ahead of the many questions John would want to ask. It was very important that they skip past this part. Sherlock was certain that if they could just get this first time out of the way, then the rest of John's concerns would be outweighed by the satisfaction of the arrangement. "I want-" he stopped, both because he knew it was appealing to appear at least somewhat out of his depth, and also because he actually _was_ somewhat out of his depth. Was he supposed to say, 'I want you to fuck me?' or perhaps, 'make love to me?' No, that sounded insipid even in his head. What then?

"You- do you… are you asking-"

"Bed," Sherlock managed to say. It seemed that the situation had robbed _both_ of them of cognizant speech. John still looked uncertain, though, so Sherlock lifted his hips again. "Please."

The word seemed to snap something in John. "Bloody hell," he whispered, seemingly to himself. Then he braced one hand by Sherlock's head, wrapped the other around the back of his neck, and kissed him.

It wasn't Sherlock's first kiss. And he'd seen it coming. He'd had three point two seconds to prepare for it. And yet, Sherlock was totally unprepared for kissing John Watson. Was this what lips had always felt like? Soft but firm, warm and coaxing? Sherlock hadn't really factored in kissing, but it should have been an awkward, messy affair considering both of their blood alcohol levels. Their teeth should have clicked together, there should have been far too much saliva, and John should have had sour breath from the whiskey mixed with the beer.

Somehow, none of those things were true. John's lips slanted over his insistently but gently, his breath chuffing out warm against Sherlock's own and smelling of a mint he must have had earlier. There was a moment for them to acclimate to the feel of their lips against each others, then John's tongue slowly drew against the seam of Sherlock's lips. Automatically, Sherlock opened to allow him entrance. There was no sudden plunge, no flailing appendage thrust into his mouth and trying to mimic sex. John's tongue traced the furl of Sherlock's lower lip, then slipped inside to lap at Sherlock's own tongue softly. It was a foreign sensation, yes, but not an unpleasant one. John tasted of mint and a hint of whiskey, and something else - something Sherlock's mind wanted to label as just 'John,' even though that was ridiculous because every flavor had a name like vanilla or orange or mint and people weren't flavors but there it was all the same, and then-

Then Sherlock realized that John Watson could kiss like nobody's business. His tongue circled Sherlock's slowly, drawing it out until he found himself somehow _participating_ in the kiss instead of just passively accepting it. How odd. How… well it didn't matter. Didn't matter that John was a good kisser, because that wasn't what Sherlock was after, and he needed to clear his head and get things back on track. He slid his hands down from John's waist to his thighs, thumbs forming a V that didn't quite touch the tented fabric covering his cock. John groaned and Sherlock took a strange kind of satisfaction in that. Sex wasn't so complicated, after all. He could do this. Easy.

John broke the kiss and pulled back a little, his one hand still cupping the back of Sherlock's neck, the other rising to splay on Sherlock's chest. "Jesus," he muttered, a smile returning to his lips. "Jesus, Sherlock. You are- you're-"

"Come _on_ , John!" Sherlock didn't have time for him to wax poetical. If they waited too long and the drinks wore off, John would start to question the ramifications of them having sex, and that would make things infinitely harder. He dug his thumbs into John's inner thighs lightly and rubbed upwards a little.

"Always so fucking impatient," John quipped, still smirking. "How do you want to do this then? We could just- I mean, would you rather-"

"Fuck. Me." Sherlock enunciated. "Now."

"Shit, Sherlock! Just- just, do you mean that literally?"

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock clarified impatiently. "Your cock, my arse."

John's cheeks colored at the words, but he didn't balk. No, John never balked. Not when Sherlock dropped eyeballs into his tea or walked in carrying a ten foot harpoon. Sherlock felt an odd surge of pride for the man, then smothered it because it was unimportant. "Alright," John breathed. "Alright." He set about undoing the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, fumbling with them a bit until Sherlock started working on them as well and then they were in a race to see who could bare more of Sherlock's chest the quickest. Then the silk fell open and Sherlock yanked John's jumper over his head, and the t-shirt below it as well. A flutter of something that felt vaguely akin to nerves settled in Sherlock's belly when John unfastened his trousers, but Sherlock squashed it.

They shuffled around for a moment, trying to shove down trousers and pants, untangling their legs when they realized that they were both still wearing shoes, then nearly jumping at the contact of heated skin against skin. The analytical part of Sherlock's brain that was still functioning wondered how many degrees sexual arousal raised skin temperature. The other part, the part that was only present in the moment, wondered if his skin felt just as hot to John.

"I think- hands and knees, right? It'll be… you'll-" John bit his lip as if he was trying to remember something he'd forgotten. _LUBE_ , Sherlock wanted to shout at him, but he didn't dare. If he threw off John's rhythm, he might change his mind, and it wasn't a risk Sherlock was willing to take. Just a little bit of pain, after all, nothing he couldn't handle. It would be fine. Maybe he ought to offer John oral sex just so that there was at least _some_ moisture- "Shit, no, we need-" John pulled back, settling onto his heels and then rising. A swoop of relief flitted through Sherlock's stomach and he found himself quite irritated about it. Still, he took John's hand when it was offered and let himself be pulled up. "Come on. My room." Then John led them up the stairs.

Just outside the door, Sherlock paused to slip off his remaining sock. It seemed like a strange thing to be concerned about, considering they were otherwise naked and holding hands, but it was an indignity Sherlock wasn't going to suffer. He tossed the sock back down the stairs and let John lead him into the bedroom. Conscious that the change in scenery could put a damper on things, Sherlock lurched forward - perhaps not all the alcohol had deserted him, after all - and sprawled on the bed. Aware that his penis was still flaccid and that might concern John, he landed face down and then looked over his shoulder. John was staring at him. Intensely. Appreciatively. It was a little unnerving, truth be told.

"John," Sherlock bit out. The word seemed to snap him out of his reverie, because John approached the bed and knelt on it. He leaned over Sherlock to reach into the night stand and grab - fuck, _yes_ \- a bottle of lube.

"Are you sure, Sherlock?" John asked him, running a hand down the length of Sherlock's spine slowly. Sherlock had a moment to idly wonder if anyone had ever touched him like that before, then quickly answered.

"Yes. Hurry."

Probably taking his impatience for eagerness, John lifted Sherlock's hips and then shifted behind him. There was a soft click, then the wet sound of John slicking his cock. The little bottle was tossed aside and John's hands were back at Sherlock's hips again, one of them slightly sticky. "God, I can't believe-" John moved a little closer and his cock brushed against Sherlock's exposed arse, making them both jump slightly. "You're so-" Unable to complete even a single thought, John lifted one hand from Sherlock's hip (the sticky one, thankfully) and gripped himself with it, then pushed the tip of his cock against Sherlock's tight opening. It lodged in the crevice and they both shuddered, but didn't go any further even when John pushed. "Fuck! Jesus you're tight, Sherlock. I don't know if I can-" Then suddenly the pressure of his cock was gone and a much smaller appendage replaced it.

John slipped his still slick finger inside, more abruptly than he had intended. Sherlock tensed, unprepared for the intense and foreign sensation. His whole body washed cold with it for a moment before he forced himself to relax. "Alright?" John asked huskily behind him.

"Yes," Sherlock assured him a little breathlessly. Even to his own ears, it sounded eager and sensual. Really, it was just his mind trying to regain total, rigid control of his body, but it didn't feel like a lie because he wasn't _trying_ to mislead John with his reactions. John fingered him slowly for several moments, then pulled his hand away and replaced it with his cock once more. When he pushed this time, the head of it wedged inside. They both gasped. An over-full, burning sensation began to spread through Sherlock and he forced himself to remain pliant and relaxed while John slowly but steadily pushed further inside of him.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_." John let himself breathe again when he felt the tops of his thighs hit the backs of Sherlock's. He was buried inside him to the hilt. It was intense, nearly oppressive heat, and so fucking _tight_ , John thought it would be a miracle if he lasted more than ten seconds, despite the fact that usually alcohol made him last longer. His body curled over Sherlock's until his forehead touched between Sherlock's shoulder blades and he stayed perfectly still, breathing in the scent of him and trying to gather his foggy wits. "Are you alright?" he asked again in a ragged whisper. There was a worrying pause, then Sherlock nodded.

"I'm fine. Fuck me." Sherlock's voice was tight, but it was all he could do to keep so many pieces of himself rigidly controlled. He felt as though there were too many sensations to categorize, that he might fly apart trying. It was a relief, at least, that it wasn't _pain_. It didn't hurt the way a knife wound or a bullet graze hurt. It was a sharp ache, a dull burn that had been terribly intense at first but was starting to ease somewhat. It was _uncomfortable_. But not unbearable. No. And in the future, when Sherlock wasn't rushing him and they weren't both drunk, John would likely spend more time preparing him so that the invasion wasn't so difficult.

Already, he was starting to adjust to the fullness of it, the heat and strange twinging that sent a fluttering bolt through his stomach. He let out a slow breath. Doable. Very doable. If this was what it cost to keep John all to himself, then really, it was a small price to pay.

John pulled back and thrust forward, renewing the intensity of the sensations and sending that tingle up to his belly again. He grunted, not expecting the force of John's next thrust. His whole body rocked forward and John pulled him back to meet the motion. Sherlock lowered himself on his elbows for a moment and when John thrust forward this time there was a pop of _something_ and Sherlock didn't know if he needed to come or vomit or piss or all three. Immediately, he pushed back up to his hands and thankfully, the too-intense sensation didn't return. John's thrusts were erratic, his breath leaving him in harsh exhalations that Sherlock was sure he could use as indicators of his arousal level (if only he could get his mind to _focus_ ), then he reached around and slipped his hand between Sherlock's legs.

Presumably, it was to jerk him off while John fucked him, but there was one problem with that. Sherlock still wasn't hard. And despite how close John was to orgasm, Sherlock thought that would make him stop. To prevent it, Sherlock supported himself on one hand and brought the other up to lace his fingers with John's. It was difficult to keep himself balanced, but somehow the contact seemed to ground him a little. He wasn't getting any sexual pleasure from what they were doing, no, but John was. John was touching him softly, mumbling a constant stream of praise that Sherlock found secretly soothing _\- you feel so good, you're so bloody gorgeous, god you have no idea what you do to me, you're incredible_ \- and Sherlock found himself rocking backwards, impaling himself on John's cock just to hear him gasp in pleasure.

When his arm was trembling from the strain of holding himself up and he felt as though he was about to collapse, John's movements became faster and more erratic. He thrust hard and deep, his stream of expletives and praise interrupted by a sudden, "Sh-sherlock, I'm going to-"

"Yes," Sherlock urged him. "Do it, John." And then with a low groan of pure bliss, John came. He took in a deep breath, then collapsed forward, his limbs shaking. The weight of it drove Sherlock down to the mattress and John landed on top of him. His softening cock slipped free. Sherlock thought that it would be a relief to have the alien fullness gone, but found instead that the sudden void was almost as uncomfortable.

John rolled slightly to the side, keeping himself still pressed along Sherlock's body but not leaving the bulk of his weight on him. Sherlock appreciated the gesture even though John's weight wasn't by any means too much for him to bear.

"H-how was-" John was still trying to catch his breath, but his hand fluttered above Sherlock before touching his shoulder softly.

"Perfect. Exactly what I wanted."

"Did you-"

"Thank you, John," Sherlock cut off the question he knew John was trying to ask. A question to which he would not like the honest answer. He turned his head in time to see John blush.

"I, er- you're welcome. Thank _you_." He smiled softly at Sherlock, and suddenly the lingering burn and ache in his arse was nothing compared to the tightness in Sherlock's chest. It didn't make sense. Not at all. He'd gotten exactly what he'd asked for. The Plan had gone perfectly. So why was John's almost shy smile doing funny things to Sherlock's insides? "I don't even kno-" his words were cut off with a yawn, and Sherlock saw it as a perfect opportunity to end the night while they were ahead.

"I'm so-" he allowed himself to act on the mirror impulse to yawn as well, then lowered his lashes to half mast.

"Me too," John murmured, his exhaustion resurging stronger than before. "Christ I'm knackered. Maybe we can just close our eyes for a bit, catch some rest. I'll grab us water in a bit."

"Yes. Yes, good." Sherlock let his eyes drift shut and listened to the sound of John's breathing slowing down and evening out. It took less than three minutes and the man was out like a light. Sherlock opened his eyes again and stared across the darkness at him. John's face was as familiar and comforting as ever, looking perhaps a bit younger than his years while so totally relaxed.

Sherlock took the quiet time to reflect on what had just happened. He'd gotten drunk with his best and only friend, then seduced him. Normally, ethics meant very little to him, but now he wondered if it had been somehow morally wrong to have arranged things this way. Technically, they were _both_ drunk, so it wasn't as though it was an issue of consent. Yes, he'd allowed John's drunkenness to hide the fact that Sherlock hadn't actually been aroused while they had sex, but that hadn't detracted from John's pleasure any so why should it make him feel guilty?

Already, he could hear John's arguments. He could hear the protests about wanting a partner who was getting just as much out of the event as he was. Sherlock had counter arguments for all of those, though. Ones he would make use of in the morning. In the meantime, he had only himself to argue with.

Letting down the _nothing really gets to me_ wall that he kept doubly reinforced at all times, Sherlock thought about how he really felt. It had affected him more than he cared to admit. Not because of the discomfort, though that had been a bit more than he had expected as well, but because it was _John_ giving it to him. Was it just because he knew how abhorrent John would find the idea of causing Sherlock pain - especially during sex? Or perhaps because for so long he had associated the doctor with nothing but excitement and comfort and security? Still, he could admit that there had been a measure of psychological pleasure to be gotten from the experience that was equal to the pain, if not exceeded it.

The way John had praised him, had stroked and held him, were things Sherlock would never have expected from _anyone_ , let alone the practical Doctor Watson. Not that Sherlock thought John was a cold fish with his sexual partners, but that was with women. Dates he wanted to be gentle with, to pamper and flatter - not falsely, no, but because they would enjoy it and he wanted them to get enjoyment from it. Sherlock wasn't like that, though. He didn't need to be told that his physical appearance was appealing. Didn't need reminded that he was 'incredible' especially since while the sentiment was _true_ , the incredible thing about him was his mind, which had very little role in sex. But in spite of all that, Sherlock had still _liked_ it.

Maybe he really was an egomaniac. After all, he liked it when John told him that his deductions were amazing, that he was brilliant and talented. So he supposed it made a certain sort of sense that it would spill over to sex. Alright then, one mystery solved.

He moved on, examining the blinding sensation that had washed over him when he'd gone down to his elbows. A simple anatomy review told him that it had been caused by John's cock hitting his prostate, but the overall effect had been surprising. Anecdotal evidence suggested that it was supposed to be a pleasurable thing, but Sherlock was tempted to disagree. There had been some pleasure, yes, but it was a sickly, overwhelming sort of pleasure that felt almost as much like a punch to the gut as a pull to orgasm. It was possible that since he'd never experienced any kind of prostate stimulation before, having a stiff cock slam into it was simply too _much_ to be enjoyable, but that was something to consider at a later time. It wasn't as though he was going to be looking into it as a means of sexual stimulation.

All in all, he decided that the Plan was a resounding success. He'd managed to have sex with John and bypassed all the ethical questions John was bound to nag him with later. He'd also gotten the pesky 'first time' out of the way, and from what little he'd read on the subject, further sexual encounters would likely be far less uncomfortable. He'd found the entire experience to be very manageable, and could even tell John with complete honesty that he had gotten some pleasure from the ordeal. Eventually, he would be able to talk John round to his way of thinking, and he would realize that the satisfaction Sherlock got from keeping John to himself as well as the satisfaction of making John feel so good was an equal exchange for the physical pleasure John got in their coupling. If anything, _Sherlock_ was getting the better end of the deal. It was just a few minutes of physical exertion he was giving. John was giving Sherlock _everything_.

It was that thought that put a small smile on his face as he fell asleep, forgetting the water and paracetamol he'd planned to put on the night stand.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up feeling both groggy and incredibly relaxed. There was a headache building behind his eyes that he knew would worsen significantly when he sat up, but his limbs were loose and he was ridiculously comfortable. There was warmth, too, the kind that only came from being in bed skin to skin with another body. That explained why he was so relaxed, then. A slight smile curled his lips as he snuggled just a little closer, enjoying the last vestiges of sleep before he had to start asking himself pesky questions like what exactly he'd done the night before and who he was in bed with. He actually felt a little guilty that he couldn't remember her name, but considering he couldn't even remember how he'd gotten home from the pub right off, he tried not to be too hard on himself. Once he got a look at her, it would come back to him.

He opened his eyes to find an expanse of perfect, pale skin covering the delicate slope of a spine. It led to a wild mop of dark hair, wavy but with errant ringlets scattered about. It actually reminded him of-

John froze, then jerked back so quickly that he fell off the bed with a thump. He held his breath, certain that the noise would have woken the lightest-sleeper-on-the-planet Sherlock Holmes, but no. He gave a slight rumble that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest, then snuggled deeper into John's pillow. Holy shit. Holy. Shit. It all came rushing back to him, putting the shots in their drinks, stumbling up the steps to the flat, wrestling on the floor, then Sherlock asking him to… to… Holy shit. He'd fucked his best friend. His male best friend.

His brain stuttered and froze on that spot, so John took the reprieve to pick himself up off the floor and slip out of the bedroom. Mechanically, he turned on the kettle and then made his way to the bathroom. He needed a shower. He needed a goddamn time machine. What the hell was wrong with him? Hadn't he realized just how huge this was? Had be just been so hard up for it that he hadn't cared that this was his best friend, his flat mate, a man, not to mention the fact that Sherlock had never shown even a hint of sexual interest in anything, ever.

He turned on the water as hot as it would go and stepped under the spray, hoping that it might wash away the muddle of confusion circling his brain and leave behind some kind of clarity. He needed to just think.

Every time he closed his eyes, his mind provided him with a vivid memory of the events of the previous night. The sights, the sounds, Christ, the smells all in stunning clarity. His cock twitched reflexively and he snapped his eyes open to glare at it. The thought bubbled up from somewhere between his confusion and self deprecation that apparently the attraction of the act wasn't just drink induced. Hell, if he was being honest with himself, he'd known that much for years. Sherlock wasn't just some bloke. Not only was he more gorgeous than any male had a right to be, but he was also in his own category for just about everything. Sex too, apparently.

So yes, John could admit - even in the light of day - that he was attracted to Sherlock. He wouldn't have ever considered trying to shag him, though! Not just because he was a man, but because he was… he was… He was Sherlock! Sex and romance were not his 'area.' Which begged the question, what the bloody hell had happened the night before? Was he supposed to believe that the man had suddenly developed a healthy sexual appetite? Had Sherlock been satisfying some passing curiosity? Had it been - god forbid - an experiment?

Despite what history would seen to suggest, John didn't think curiosity or an experiment was the cause. Even though Sherlock lacked tact, social skills, and almost all sense of decorum, even he would be able to grasp the long-term implications of having sex with his best friend. No matter how mature they decided to be about the whole thing, there was always a chance that something like sex could ruin a friendship. And though there were times that John thought Sherlock took him for granted or might not even notice if he was gone, he knew that Sherlock did indeed care about their relationship. He cared about it a great deal.

So what did that leave, then?

It was hard to believe that someone like Sherlock would choose John as his partner if he'd suddenly developed an interest in sex. Sherlock could have practically anyone he wanted, man or woman. He could pick someone elegant and posh and… not John. The idea sent a curl of distaste through John's stomach. What the hell… Was he jealous? Of Sherlock and some imaginary partner? Had he totally lost his mind somewhere between the alcohol and the fantastic sex?

Because, oh, it had been bloody fantastic sex. Liquor usually dulled John's senses, making sex a long-winded affair. But the night before, John had been ready to go off ten pumps in. Sherlock had been tight and hot and just… Sherlock. He couldn't even claim it was the act itself, because he'd had his cock up an arse before, and while it had been great, it hadn't ever been anything compared to the way Sherlock had felt. Lord, the man had probably ruined him for anyone else in one drunken night.

As he stepped out of the shower, something tugged at the back of his mind, some thought that he'd had the night before but hadn't been able to quite grasp. He tried to follow the threads of it as he toweled off and slipped on a pair of clean pants. It was something… something that had made him think maybe- Or it could be just a vague sense of dissatisfaction, though he couldn't possibly think of why since he'd-

Oh.

He remembered putting his hand down between Sherlock's legs, not really having a clue what he was doing but thinking that he wanted Sherlock to feel as good as he did, to come when he did, only Sherlock had taken his hand instead. At the time, it had seemed affectionate. Now, though, it didn't make any sense. There was no way John was experienced enough - what with him having no experience at all - or skilled enough to have gotten him off with penetration alone. So why wouldn't Sherlock have wanted John to help him along? He hadn't been doing it himself.

Suddenly the thought struck him that perhaps Sherlock hadn't enjoyed what they'd done. For one nauseating, horror stricken moment, John wondered if Sherlock had even wanted to have sex with him, or if John had somehow misinterpreted everything and had… But no. He recalled very clearly Sherlock asking for John to fuck him. He'd been incredibly eager.

Had things gone wrong somewhere along the line? He recalled how little time he'd taken to prepare Sherlock for it. No, John didn't know any more about gay sex than his medical training told him by inference, but anyone with half a brain could come to the right conclusions. And if he'd needed to be slow and careful with his female partners for that particular act, to get them relaxed and aroused, then it was safe to assume that the same could be applied to male partners as well. John had barely taken enough precautions to make sure Sherlock wouldn't bleed, let alone for him to have enjoyed it!

He was thoroughly disgusted with himself. So much so that he almost forgot to wonder why Sherlock hadn't said anything about it. John wasn't some random stranger who wouldn't give a fuck about Sherlock's comfort. And Sherlock certainly had to know that if he'd voiced even the slightest hint that he needed something different, John would have given it to him. So why? Why had he allowed John to fuck him with absolutely no regard for his feelings?

He realized he'd been mechanically preparing tea when he heard a creak on the stairs. There were two cups on the counter in front of him, and his first, unhelpful impulse was to take a cup to Sherlock. Because tea was the best greeting to give your best friend the night after you shagged them horribly. Actually, they were British. Tea was appropriate in practically every situation. He lifted the cup and met Sherlock in the hall.

The initial sight of the man nearly paralyzed John. He was walking with a slight hitch in his step - probably John's fault - and his dressing gown cinched tightly around his waist. His hair, which was always fashionably messy, stood up on one side and was tangled on the other. There was a rosy patch on one cheek where he'd been sleeping on it, and as soon as he saw John, a nearly twin spot appeared on the other side.

John found himself, for the first time, utterly enamored by the sight of his flat mate just out of bed. Except, that wasn't really true, was it? It hadn't been quite like this, no, but John'd had this tightness in his chest when looking at Sherlock before. Watching him play violin, seeing him curled up on the couch, hearing the roughness in his voice when he woke up after sleeping more than an hour.

Realizing that he'd been staring, John thrust the cup at Sherlock and tried to smile a little. "Morning."

"Good morning," Sherlock returned, somewhat stiffly. He eyed John, the proffered cup of tea, then the door to the loo.

"Listen, I think we should talk."

"Yes, but first-"

"No, I don't think we should put this off. It's important that we-"

"John-"

"-discuss what happened because-"

"John."

"-if we just let this go, then-"

"John!"

John's mouth snapped shut and his eyes went wide. It wasn't often that he heard Sherlock's voice that forceful.

"There is… fluid trickling down my thigh, and I insist you let me into the bathroom to clean myself up." The blush high on his cheeks had spread across the bridge of his nose and to the tips of his ears.

"Oh! Right! Sorry, I-" John allowed Sherlock to thrust the cup of tea back into his hand and then sweep past him into the bathroom. The door closed with a definitive 'click' and John stood there a moment in shock before moving numbly to his chair. He set Sherlock's tea on the table and sipped his own, trying - and failing - not to think about the fact that the fluid that had been trickling down Sherlock's thigh was, in fact, John's own ejaculate. The tips of his own ears heated up and he took a fortifying sip of tea.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom and lowered himself gingerly into his chair. He picked up his tea and they drank in silence for a full five more minutes before John couldn't bear the silence.

"Are you alright?" he blurted out. Sherlock looked at him with one brow raised.

"I am."

"I mean, are you… sore?"

A tinge of pink appeared on Sherlock's cheekbones again. "I assure you, I am fine."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Then ask a better one."

"Fine. Did you orgasm last night?"

Sherlock nearly spat out the drink of tea he'd just taken. He'd expected them to discuss the events of the previous evening, but he hadn't expected John to be so blunt. "John!"

"Did you?"

"I fail to see the relevance of that question."

"It is bloody relevant, Sherlock. I think I was pissed and unforgivably stupid. I think I hurt you and didn't even bother to get you off. It matters."

"You did not hurt me," Sherlock enunciated clearly. He wanted to make that point absolutely plain. "What happened was exactly what I wanted to happen."

"You wanted to sleep with an inconsiderate arse who was thinking only of himself?"

There was a pause while Sherlock took another drink of his tea, firmly in control of himself again. Now things were going the way he expected them. "Actually, yes."

"Wait- what?"

"I had no intention of 'getting off' as you put it. The point was to give you physical release."

"Me."

"Indeed."

"I- but… why?"

"I came to a conclusion about our relationship last night, John." Sherlock set down his tea and tented his fingers beneath his chin. Here is where he would need all of his rational deductions. He just needed to convince John that this was the right choice for them both. "As we were participating in our inebriated tussling, I realized that given long enough time to built up sexual frustration, you were able to achieve and maintain an erection through physical contact with me, despite your otherwise strict sexual preferences to women. It became clear to me that since that is the case, there is no need for you to seek other companionship for your sexual needs. I can provide that outlet for you, and you won't have any need to interrupt cases for dates, or worry about trying to find time for a girlfriend. It is perfectly logical."

John just stared at him. The silence stretched from one minute into three. Then five. Sherlock waited, giving him time to think it through. Really, though, it shouldn't take this long to-

"Are you… are you saying you want to date?" His brows were drawn together in confusion.

"If by that you mean live together, solve crime together, participate in mutually satisfying activities together, and sate your sexual needs together, then yes."

"My sexual needs."

"That is the main thing I see changing from our current situation."

"Just mine."

Ah, here it was. Sherlock had been expecting this argument from the beginning. "Rarely do I ever find myself in need of that sort of physical release, and never have I needed another person to assist, so yes. Your needs."

"That's not-"

"The thing you have to see here, John, is that this arrangement is really a greater benefit to me than it is to you."

"We're talking about me fucking you without you enjoying it and you want me to believe that you're getting the benefit?" Anger had started to edge into his voice.

"That's a rather crude way of putting it, but yes. I would rather you not waste your time hunting for women. It is my selfish desire to have you to myself that prompted this idea. You would be the one sacrificing romantic entanglements and potential new partners. All I would be sacrificing is-"

"Is your body."

"Yes. Which you know means very little to me in those terms. It's just transport."

"You… you've just got it all fucking figured out, have you?" John slammed down his tea cup so hard that it clattered in the saucer and tea spilled over the edge. "Let's just put aside the fact that we're calmly discussing a complete change of my sexuality-"

"That's not the case at-"

"Shut up," John snapped at him. Sherlock obligingly fell silent. "Putting that aside, how the hell do you think I'm supposed to feel about having sex with someone who doesn't want it?"

"This arrangement is what I want."

"No. No, what you want is the convenience of having me not date. You don't want sex. With me. Maybe not with anyone."

"That hardly-"

"If you say it doesn't bloody matter, I swear I will snap your violin bow over my knee, so help me god, Sherlock. It does matter! It isn't something you should ever do when you don't want to."

"Why not? I don't imagine Mrs Hudson wants to bring us biscuits. Or Lestrade wants to have a drink once a week with my brother to update him about me. Or you want to make tea for me every morning. But no one considers those unfair or wrong."

"That's because-!" John stopped, realizing he was yelling. He took in a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. "This might seem like a strange concept to you, Sherlock, but sometimes people do things for others because they care about them. Mrs Hudson brings us the bloody biscuits because she wants us to have them. Greg meets up with your brother because he cares about you and wants Mycroft not to have to worry about you so much. And I make your tea because I'm already making mine and I don't want you to go without!"

Sherlock waited a moment before speaking again, keeping the triumph from his eyes when he finally rested his hands on the arms of his chair and leaned forward. "Then this is exactly the same. Despite how I come across to most, I am capable of caring. More than I like to admit. And you are aware that I care for you. I don't want you to go without the things you need, sex included. And since I have the ability and am willing, it makes practical sense for me to meet that need for you."

"And you'll what- lie back and think of England?"

"Of course not. There are far more important things I could turn my mind to- but I do understand your euphemism. I can, of course, make all the appropriate sounds and movements that would-"

"Don't. Don't you dare. I don't even want to hear you talk about faking it."

"As you wish," Sherlock demurred calmly.

"L-last night… were you faking it then? You were… you made…"

"I didn't force myself to react any certain way, no. Any vocalizations were the result of me… growing accustomed to our activity."

"You were gasping in pain?" John shot out of his chair, both hands thrust into his hair and tugging. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"No, that's not what I said! It wasn't pain. It was uncomfortable, yes, but not unbearably so. I'm certain that now my first time is out of the way, it will be far easier-"

John's head jerked up and he stopped pacing. "Your first time?"

"Er- yes." Sherlock shifted beneath John's intense gaze, then winced a little at the movement. John's eyes narrowed.

"Your first time ever?"

"I just said that I've never needed anyone to assist the few times I've required physical release," Sherlock said impatiently, his discomfort at the admission making his voice sharp. "So there was no reason to engage in sexual activity before last night."

"Great. That's just fucking great. I took your virginity in a drunken shag that you didn't even enjoy. Was last night a teenage prom?"

"Don't be ridiculous! You didn't take my virginity, as there was nothing to give. I participated in a specific activity for the first time, that's all. And frankly, there isn't anyone else I would have possibly wanted to do that with, no matter the reason."

That confession struck John still for several long moments, the two of them just staring at each other. Then, slowly, as if afraid he might back away, John crossed the distance between them. He dropped to his knees between Sherlock's legs and took Sherlock's hands in his own. At first, he just studied the pale, elegant fingers he'd twined with his. After resting his forehead against them briefly, John looked up at Sherlock again. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need-"

"Just- just shut up and let me. I'm sorry I was so bloody inconsiderate. I'm sorry I rushed and hurt you-" he saw Sherlock about to protest again and shook his head, "or caused you discomfort or however you're wording it. And I'm sorry your first time was a rough, drunken shag. If I'd known-"

"If you'd known, you wouldn't have done it," Sherlock drawled. John's lips twitched, then he let himself smile.

"You're probably right."

"Of course I am. I know you, John Watson. I know you wouldn't have wanted to 'take my virginity' as you put it - are we living in the eighteenth century, by the way? - just like I knew you likely wouldn't have sex with me if you were sober."

John rocked back onto his heels and then scooted back across to his own chair. "You say that like you got me drunk and took advantage of me."

"Au contraire. You were the one who kept putting shots in our beer. And since I didn't come up with the Plan until we were both drunk, I think no advantage was taken over anyone."

They both chuckled for a moment, relieved for the break in the thick tension. Eventually, John picked back up his now cool tea and drained it. "This is incredibly fucked up, you know. I mean, we've been poster children for 'bit not good', but this takes things to a whole new level."

"Yes, well, I don't give a rat's arse what anyone else thinks. Does this mean you're accepting my proposal?"

"Prop- you say that like you just asked me to marry you!"

"Well it is legal in the UK now," Sherlock smirked. "You know I think marriage is a useless and archaic institution, but if it was what you wanted-"

"Nope, no, stop right there. We are not going to sit here calmly discussing marriage when we've had one drunken shag that didn't even result in a happy ending for one of us, and you're still thinking of this whole thing like it's some kind of business transaction."

"Marriage really isn't all that different-"

"It is. It really, really is. And neither of us should even be discussing it. We've already established that you don't want me. Let's not even begin to talk about taking it further."

"John." Sherlock's voice had gone serious again, and John looked up at him. "It isn't a personal insult, you know. I just don't have those needs. But… but if I did, I'm certain that there isn't anyone else I would be willing to act on them with. Doesn't that help?"

"It… it does mean something," John admitted. "It means a lot. But it doesn't mean that I think I can just use you like that."

"I use you all the time," Sherlock reminded him. "Maker of tea, conductor of light, provider of groceries…"

"Yes, well I don't like the idea of relegating you to a convenient hole for me to fuck."

"Of course not, John, don't be ridiculous." Sherlock smirked at him. "I have two holes."

John choked. "You cock."

"Yes, I have one of those too, but it won't be necessary for these proceedings." The smirk became a grin. John chucked the throw pillow at his head.


	3. Chapter 3

The fact that they'd slept together became a subject John worked very hard not to think about in the following days. He didn't want to try and reason it out any more than he already had. Mainly because Sherlock had talked him in circles until it seemed as though the selfish thing to do would be _not_ to keep having sex with him. Arguing with a genius was never a good idea.

Still, there were a great many times that John found himself watching Sherlock. Admiring the way his long limbs splayed out when he sat in a chair, taking covert glances at the man's arse when his long coat flapped back. Once, he'd found that his mouth had gone completely dry when Sherlock had emerged from a shower in nothing but snug red pants.

It was becoming a regular occurrence for John to sport an erection half the day. Despite the fact that usually he could go several weeks without sex before it became a bother, he'd started day dreaming about it. He spent god-only-knew how much time staring distractedly at Sherlock's crotch while the man tried to get his attention one afternoon.

That night, Sherlock slipped silently into John's room. It had taken John longer than Sherlock had expected, actually, to get to his breaking point. Still, he knew that John would never go to him for sex. Sherlock had to be the one to initiate it. He closed the door behind him softly and waited. John's eyes landed on him easily even in the darkness. Neither of them spoke. Slowly, Sherlock crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Can I?" he asked lightly.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Please?" There was a pause, then the break Sherlock had been waiting for. The moment when John's desire overcame his reservations. He pulled back the covers for Sherlock to slip beneath. Sherlock cast aside his dressing gown and angled himself towards John. Once there, they looked each other over, the soft moonlight coming through the window barely enough for them to see by. John leaned close, then paused and drew back.

"I don't really know how to start," he admitted.

"I'm the ameteur here."

"Trust me, I'm aware," John replied sarcastically. Sherlock smirked.

"Just do whatever you normally would. Whatever would put you in the mood, make you comfortable."

"I… well normally I start off with kissing. But you're not…"

"Kiss me, then," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"But you don't-"

"John." Sherlock cut him off. "You'll be pleased to know that I am _not_ a complete ameteur at kissing, and I can say with total honesty that yours was far and away the best one I've had. I have no objection at all about kissing you again if you like."

John was glad that Sherlock couldn't see the tips of his ears go red. "Alright, then," he muttered, more to himself than Sherlock. "Right. Here we go." He propped himself up on one elbow, cupped the back of Sherlock's neck in a firm, practical grip, closed his eyes, and leaned down. Sherlock raised his head the last fraction of an inch between them until their lips met. That first brush of soft, warm skin against skin was all John needed. He moaned low and relaxed into the kiss. His grip on Sherlock became less rigid and more like a caress. He slanted his head and deepened their connection, desperate for more.

Sherlock reached out and wrapped long fingers around John's erection. Beneath his touch it grew even harder and pulsed lightly. John groaned, his hips bucking towards the contact. He rolled so that he was on top of Sherlock, his tongue exploring the depths of his mouth, his free hand trailing over every inch of pale skin that he could reach.

Without the cloud of alcohol dulling his inhibitions, John had wondered how he would react to _male_ anatomy beneath his touch. Obviously he needn't have been concerned. Sherlock was long graceful lines and smooth heat. He was firm and slim and strong and that was somehow more sexy than soft and round and delicate could ever be. And the fact that it was _Sherlock_ \- that much alone was enough to drive John to the edge.

Hesitantly, he slipped his hand between them and felt at the juncture of Sherlock's legs. He found Sherlock's cock, soft and uninterested against his thigh. Some of the heat left him at the stark reminder that Sherlock didn't actually _want_ this. He wasn't getting pleasure from it like John was.

"Don't," Sherlock murmured in his ear. John pulled back enough to look down at him, at the silver eyes looking more gentle than John had ever seen them, at the kiss reddened lips. "Don't let that bother you. This is for me, remember?"

"It's hard to feel that way when you're not…"

"Hard?"

"Prat. I was going to say when you're not enjoying it."

"The fact that I'm not getting sexual pleasure from this doesn't mean I'm not enjoying it."

"But it's not-" John stopped when Sherlock squeezed his cock lightly. "Oh, sod it." He looked down at Sherlock again, huffing out a breath. "Are you sure?"

" _Yes_."

"Fine. Alright then. Hands and knees again?"

"I defer to your judgement." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

"Well I want- I mean, I'd like it like this, but from what I-" he coughed, stopping himself from admitting it was what he'd _read_ , which would be admitting he'd done actual _research_ about how to have sex with a man, "-from what I understand, it's easiest for you on hands and knees."

"Whatever you like, John."

"Shut up. I'm going to do this right this time." Resolved, he urged Sherlock to turn over. While he repositioned, John got out the lubricant from his nightstand and slipped out of his pants. When he opened the bottle to get his hand slick, he realized it was trembling. From excitement? Nerves? Anticipation? Plain sexual arousal? He wasn't sure.

Slowly, carefully, gingerly, he pressed one slippery finger against the tight opening of Sherlock's arse. Sherlock let out a breath and John paused, but when Sherlock glanced back at him, he pushed again. This time, the digit slipped inside. Sherlock shuddered.

"You alright?"

"Fine," came the clipped reply.

"Don't," John said tightly. "Don't do that. I need you to tell me how you're feeling. Honestly. Otherwise I'm stopping this."

"Fine," Sherlock bit out, irritably. "It's… strange. But not painful. Happy?"

"Happier, yeah. Just try and relax." John smirked a little when Sherlock huffed at the instruction. He moved his finger in and out steadily, waiting until the vice grip on it eased a little before adding a second one. Sherlock clamped down on him again. "That's two. I'm going to do three before we go further, okay?"

"This really isn't necessary, John. I'll adjust-"

"You'll let me prep you thoroughly or we won't go further at all."

"Whatever you say, Captain Watson," Sherlock griped.

"Keep that up and I'll think you want to role play with me."

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder at John again, this time wearing a wicked smirk. "Who said I don't?"

"Git."

"Prude."

"You say to the man with his fingers in your arse. Now stop distracting me. I'm going to three now." John waited for Sherlock to nod, then pushed a third finger in. Sherlock tensed. "Still okay?"

"Y-yes." This time his voice shook slightly.

"Tell me what you're feeling."

"Full. There was a bit of a burn, but it's fading. It's very… odd."

"Odd bad?"

"Just odd."

Satisfied Sherlock wasn't in pain, John slowly fingered him. On one ingress, he curled his fingers slightly. Sherlock gasped and jerked. "Sherlock?"

"Prostate," Sherlock bit out.

"Did it-" John paused, confused. Wasn't prostate stimulation supposed to feel _good_? "Did that hurt?"

"No. Just… intense."

"Too much?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then. What if I press softer?" He demonstrated, brushing his fingers even more lightly over the spot on his next thrust.

"B-better."

"Does it feel good?"

"It's just- intense. Stop worrying about trying to make me feel good, John. This is for you."

"If I _can_ make you enjoy it, I want to."

"If I believe that is possible, I will let you know. Alright?"

"Fine," John relented. "I think… I think you're ready." He withdrew his fingers and added more lube to his cock. Quickly, so that Sherlock didn't have time to tense up again, John lined them up and began to push forward. The tip of his cock slipped in far easier than he recalled it doing the first time, which he took as a good sign. As soon as the head was in, he stopped. Sherlock had gasped, and his skin was covered in goosebumps. "Sherlock?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said between deep breaths. "Just adjusting."

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"I'm serious. Just go slow and I'll be fine."

John braced one hand on Sherlock's hip and very slowly pressed in deeper. Sherlock groaned softly and John heard himself make the same sound. It felt even more incredible than he remembered. The heat and pressure were overwhelming. By the time he was in up to the hilt, he was panting from the pleasure of it. He leaned forward until his head was resting between Sherlock's shoulder blades, his breath huffing softly against that perfect, pale skin. He pressed a kiss there, growling when Sherlock shivered.

Slowly, he pulled back and thrust in again. "How's that?"

"Fine. Just _go_ , John. Fuck me already."

It felt like something in John snapped. It wasn't the first time he'd heard Sherlock say those words, but having that husky baritone demand, 'fuck me' was something John didn't think he would ever get used to. His cock jerked and he gripped Sherlock's hip reflexively. "They call that - _ah_ \- topping from the bottom, you know." He thrust in again, gasping when Sherlock's muscles gripped him tighter.

Whatever quip Sherlock had been about to make back was lost as John canted his hips upward and hit that same spot, causing Sherlock to get a jolt through his belly. "John!"

"Prostate again?" John asked, pausing his movements.

"Yes."

"Too much?"

" _Yes_."

"How's this, then?" Instead of a full thrust, John carefully rubbed the tip of his cock over that spot, keeping his hips tilted up.

"Little better," Sherlock gasped.

"Just stay relaxed. Tell me if it gets to be too much again." John kept up the short, soft thrusts. Slowly, he started to build up to faster and sharper ones. Sherlock moaned again, his body tensing reflexively. After one particularly deep thrust his hissed in a breath and his hands gripped the sheets in fists.

"Too much!" His cock twitched where it hung below him, starting to thicken slightly. Sherlock was shocked and confused by the reaction. Thankfully, John listened to him immediately.

"Alright. No more, then." He tipped his hips back downward, keeping his thrusting steady but not hitting Sherlock's prostate any more. He waited for Sherlock to relax again, then picked up his pace, driving in deep. "Sh-Sherlock," he breathed. Sherlock had begun to push back against him, impaling himself on John's cock. It was more than he could bear. "Sherlock. Sherlock. _Sherlock_!" The pressure built until it burst, pleasure exploding through him. He swore, clutching Sherlock's hips tightly as he rode out his orgasm. Little jerks of it continued to streak through him, making his cock pulse, even after the initial pleasure faded. "Okay?" he gasped, trying to catch his breath and slow his thundering heart.

"Yes," Sherlock assured him. "Just, pull out slowly please."

"Right. Of course." John waited until the last of the aftershocks had stopped, then slowly separated their bodies. Sherlock still hissed in a breath when the softening tip slipped free, but he didn't flinch. They both collapsed onto the bed.

After several long minutes, John had finally managed to lower his pulse to something akin to a normal rate. "Jesus, Sherlock. Jesus that was incredible."

"I'm glad," Sherlock murmured, turning his head so that he could enjoy the dazed look of pleasure on John's face. John reached out and traced a finger gently across the furl of Sherlock's lower lip.

"I wish…" he stopped, as if feeling guilty about asking for more. "Thank you," he said instead.

"You're very welcome." They both watched each other for a long while, without any more words to say. Eventually, John's eye lids grew heavy.

"Can I- what's it say in the rules about cuddling?"

Sherlock laughed softly. "Since we are making the rules up as we go, I don't see anything that says why not. If I can't sleep, I'll wait until you do and then go downstairs."

"I hope you can," John murmured, turning to his side and pulling Sherlock close. Sherlock tucked himself back into John's arms comfortably.

"I do too."


	4. Chapter 4

The next time came a week later. They'd just finished a case and were still abuzz on the high of it. Even after they'd showered off the grime of the city and settled in their chairs with cups of tea, they were both wound tightly. Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. John bounced his knee up and down. The television was on in the background, playing some crap show neither of them had any inclination to watch.

Suddenly, Sherlock slipped off his chair and went to his knees between John's legs.

"Sherl-" John's exclamation was cut off in a gasp when Sherlock began undoing the placket of his denims.

"Just to help you unwind," he explained, tugging the material aside and letting John's quickly forming erection free. He wrapped his fingers around it, tugging lightly to encourage it to its full length. John groaned, still torn between letting himself appreciate the pleasure and feeling guilty about Sherlock giving it to him without getting any in return.

When Sherlock's tongue swiped a wet path up John's cock, though, all thoughts of right and wrong were obliterated. All he could do was feel the heat of Sherlock's mouth engulfing him. The movements were uncoordinated, but it was probably the man's first time giving oral sex, and John certainly wasn't complaining. As if he could sense that his technique wasn't perfect, Sherlock pulled back and sat on his heels.

"This is a task for which I have no talent yet, John. As I have the ability to suppress my gag reflex, I think the best course of action would be for you to hold my head and thrust."

"You… you want me to fuck your throat?" John sounded incredulous. He'd spent most of his adult life trying _not_ to do that to his partners. "I don't think that will be-" His sentence was cut off when Sherlock took his cock into his mouth again, taking it all the way until his nose was pressed against the trimmed blonde hair on John's pelvis. He very purposely stayed there, the tip of John's cock in his throat, and took a slow breath in through his nose. He let it out and met John's eyes as if to say, 'see?' " _Fuck_ ," John breathed. He thought about protesting again, but knew Sherlock would only take it as an insult. "Alright, just let me stand up. I don't think I can thrust much sitting like this."

He stood, shuffling a little until he was standing with his back against the wall. He had a feeling that he was going to need the support by the time they were done. "And Sherlock, stop me right away if it gets to be too much, okay?"

"Yes, yes, I know," Sherlock huffed, following John on his knees. He took John's hands and put them on the back of his head, humming a little as John's fingers naturally threaded through his hair. "Just don't stop unless I pull back. _Enjoy_ this."

"Like there's a chance I wouldn't," John muttered. He guided Sherlock's head forward, letting his cock slip between waiting lips, then thrust forward slowly. The feel of his hyper-sensitive skin dragging across Sherlock's tongue, the pressure that wrapped around him when he hit the back of Sherlock's throat and kept going, the vibration from the slight moan Sherlock gave, was all more than John could take. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall, his jaw slack, then snapped back up so that he wouldn't miss a single moment of the erotic sight before him.

Despite Sherlock's urging, John took his time working up to more eager thrusts. He started slow, cradling the back of Sherlock's head and making long, deep thrusts, making sure that Sherlock was still breathing okay. True to his word, Sherlock seemed to have totally suppressed his gag reflex and had no trouble keeping the length of John's cock in his throat. It wasn't until Sherlock made an impatient sound and made a few rough jerking movements that John finally let himself go.

He held Sherlock's head still and thrust hard, fully fucking Sherlock's mouth. It was bliss, pure and simple. Quicker than he would have liked, he could feel tingling bolts of pleasure streaking through him. There was a part of him that wanted to slow down, draw out the experience, but that seemed incredibly selfish. Instead, he sped up and let himself get lost in the sensation. Not long after, he tightened his fingers in Sherlock's hair, his breath coming in short pants.

"Sherl- I'm- I'm-" Suddenly he realized that he had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do during his orgasm. They hadn't talked about it, and it seemed rude just to come down the man's throat without asking. He stopped thrusting, keeping his release on edge. "Should I- pull out?" There was a pause, and John could tell from the way Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth minutely that he was thinking through all the angles. After a beat, he took John's cock deep again. John read the hint and silently thanked any deity that was listening. In two more thrusts, he was there, shuddering through an orgasm. He kept Sherlock pulled tight against him, his cock jerking and twitching in his throat as he spilled.

Sherlock began to swallow, and John nearly bit his tongue off at the pleasure of it. It was obvious that Sherlock noticed his reaction, because he kept swallowing through the end of John's orgasm, drawing it out. John realized his fingers had been clutched tightly in Sherlock's hair, pulling, and he relaxed his fingers. He made small, massaging circles with them in apology. Sherlock looked up at him in surprise, then hummed softly.

When there was no more pleasure to be wrung from him, John gently set Sherlock away from him. Sherlock calmly wiped his chin and then moved back to his chair. John barely had the energy to stagger to his own before he collapsed into it.

"That was… that was-"

"Loquacious as always, John," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Oh shut up," John griped with a smile. "You sucked all the rational thought out of me."

"That was up to your standards, then?"

"Up to my- yeah. Yeah, you could say that. You could also say it was the best bloody blowjob of my life. You never do anything in half measures, do you?"

"Often not," Sherlock agreed, his smirk widening. He was _proud_ of himself. That twisted something in John's chest.

"I don't suppose you would… uh, let me return the favor?" He felt himself blushing at the very idea, but surprisingly it didn't disgust him. He'd never had another bloke's cock in his mouth before, but he was suddenly very aware that as long as it was _Sherlock's_ , then he wouldn't mind at all.

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a moment, then shifted in his chair as if he was imagining the scenario. "While I appreciate the sentiment, John, that's not necessary."

"I know it's not necessary. I'd still like to, if you want."

"I-" Sherlock's brows drew together in a way they did when he was trying to work out some desperately difficult puzzle. "I don't know that it would… work."

"You don't think it would come up, or that I'd be able to get you off that way?"

"Either. Or rather, both."

"Sherlock, do you have any sexual impulse _at all?_ "

"I told you already. It's just not something that I find necessary very often. It does happen occasionally, but I've never _instigated_ it."

"Would you want to try?"

Sherlock paused, glancing down at his lap as if he expected the subject of their discussion would provide some input. "I'm… not sure." He frowned, obviously upset at not having all the answers. "Perhaps, the next time the situation… arises, we could attempt something."

"Okay," John agreed. "Yeah, good. That's a good plan. And if you decide before then that you want to try, just say something. I'd like to be able to reciprocate a little."

Sherlock nodded, for the first time in many years glad to put off finding an answer to a question.

XXX

The next several weeks were a strange transition period for them both. John grew more comfortable having sex with Sherlock, though he never stopped making at least some attempt at making it pleasurable for him. More and more often, Sherlock slipped into his room at night. Even on days when John wasn't restlessly horny. At first, John thought that perhaps Sherlock was reading him wrong or was overcompensating with his efforts, but that didn't make sense. Sherlock could read John like a book. And, more and more, John didn't even try to hide his feelings.

One night, Sherlock came to his room and slid beneath the sheets still wearing his pants, which was a first. John was exhausted - a day spent chasing criminals through the streets of London tended to do that to a person - and didn't even bother trying to engage Sherlock sexually. Instead, he pulled Sherlock against him, settled comfortably, and fell asleep.

When he woke up and Sherlock was still in his arms, he realized that their situation was more complex than he had at first thought. Or, perhaps, it was simpler. It had been mostly sarcasm when he'd said it, but hadn't he suggested that first day that what Sherlock was asking was for them to 'date'? If what they had was strictly physical, then it was strange for Sherlock to come to him when they weren't going to have sex. If they were _romantically_ involved, then it was just something couples did.

The main question was, did Sherlock actually _want_ to be romantically involved with John, or was he participating in the rituals he felt couples did just to please John? On the one hand, he was touched that Sherlock, who claimed to disdain emotion and sentiment, was willing to be considerate of even his emotional needs. On the other hand, he didn't think he could stand the idea of Sherlock doing those things out of obligation. He found himself _wanting_ Sherlock to want him. To care about him the way John - heaven help him - cared about Sherlock. He wanted their situation to be one of more than just convenience.

How could he even begin to bring a topic like that up to Sherlock, though? This thing between them was so new that he didn't dare risk putting pressure on it just yet. If he told Sherlock he cared about him and asked how Sherlock felt, would that be asking too much? Would Sherlock withdraw from him for fear of leading John on? But what, really, was there to lead him on _to_? Now that they were having sex, they were one public commitment away from being a married couple, for heaven's sake. The fact that Sherlock had talked him into this mad venture was evidence enough of his affection for John, right?

Still, affection and dependency - which John could admit that they both had a fair amount of - was a far cry from love. And moreso every day, John realized that was what he wanted. It was selfish and unfair of him to ask when Sherlock had already given everything else to him, body and soul, but there it was all the same. He wondered, briefly, if he was going mad. A few weeks ago, he hadn't even considered Sherlock as a possible romantic partner, and suddenly he wanted the man to profess his love for him.

And yet, this… _thing_ with Sherlock somehow seemed like the most natural thing in the world. They'd been friends for years, had lived together, worked together, bloody hell they'd practically dated without calling it that. Besides, John had always felt his emotions deeply. Perhaps it was a little mad, but it was also the most _right_ thing John had ever felt in his life.

The previous night, Sherlock had slipped into John's bed naked and John had been brazen and hurried in his need for release. His sex drive, which had been high but not abnormal before, seemed to have doubled since Sherlock had begun sleeping beside him. He'd been careful not to hurt Sherlock, but he'd been more fervent than ever before in taking him. Sherlock hadn't uttered a single complaint. Despite his urgency, there had been something unusual about the sex that John couldn't get out of his mind.

He'd been riding Sherlock hard, purposely not hitting the man's prostate because he was still uncomfortable with strong pressure on it, and had one hand splayed out low on Sherlock's belly to keep him in place. On a particularly hard thrust, he thought he felt - he was _almost certain_ he felt - something lightly slap the back of his hand. He'd thrust forward again, and the soft smack had come again, hot and fast, as though something had bobbed up and- But then Sherlock had laced their fingers together and moved John's hand away. He'd clamped down on John's cock hard and slammed back against him in a way that had stolen John's breath and robbed him of his ability to focus on anything but his sudden orgasm.

By the time he'd caught his breath and they were lying back on the bed, Sherlock had the sheet pulled up over them. He'd looked, subtly, but the outline of Sherlock's cock beneath the sheet told him very little. It looked perhaps not entirely flaccid, but that wasn't totally new. There had been more than one occasion where it had risen to half mast. Each time, Sherlock had asked John to leave it, and John had respected his wishes. But now… if Sherlock had gotten a full erection, wasn't that something they needed to talk about?

He'd fallen asleep wondering if it was more selfish to push Sherlock into dealing with his arousal or to ignore it like he'd previously asked and keep fucking him without trying to get him off. Neither option had seemed particularly good.

In the morning, he woke up spooned around Sherlock like he usually did. He had an erection, which didn't surprise him - what healthy male didn't have morning wood, on occasion at least? - but he found himself rocking his hips forward against Sherlock's backside as he struggled awake, which _did_ surprise him. He'd just gotten off the night before, so there was no reason for him to be so eager again already. Yes, he'd been having sex with more regularity than he'd ever had in his life, but less than eight hours? It seemed ridiculous. He was in his _thirties_ , not a bloody teenager. Still, it was hard to ignore the pull of Sherlock's warm, supple body.

Perhaps, if he'd kept his hands to himself, he would have rocked forward against the smooth, firm skin of Sherlock's arse a few more times and then controlled his hips. He would have forced himself out of bed and into a shower. They would have gone about their day as if nothing unusual had happened, and it would have taken him weeks more to decide what to do about the erection-that-might-have-been.

Instead, one of his hands had slipped around Sherlock's hip and found something that made his breath hitch. His fingers skimmed the turgid flesh of what was absolutely, positively, _certainly_ an erection. Sherlock's cock was hard, and it throbbed slightly when John rocked his hips forward again. A shudder of pleasure went through John's whole body. Suddenly, he _wanted_ , with a fiercer ache than he'd ever felt. He wanted to have Sherlock while the other man was hard and eager and _aroused_ like this.

His breath suddenly coming in sharp pants, John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's erection and tugged gently. Sherlock moaned in his sleep. His hips jerked backwards. John had to bite his tongue to keep from swearing out loud. Instead, he wiggled his own hips around until the tip of his cock became wedged against the still slick crevice it had released in hours before. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way in with little thrusts that made Sherlock's cock pulse in his hand. When he was all the way inside, he let out a shuddering breath and twined their legs together, wanting to be as close to Sherlock, as _joined_ , as possible. He pulled back and thrust forward again slowly, seeking seeking-

Sherlock groaned softly, his muscles clamping down around John mercilessly and his cock jerking. Fighting the urge to howl in satisfaction, John pulled back and very purposely thrust against that same spot again, gently but firmly. He was rewarded with another jump of Sherlock's cock. Slowly, he began stroking it in time with his thrusts. All of the softness and gentleness, the tenderness, that he'd eschewed the night before manifesting itself in this round. His need to come wasn't urgent, and was far superseded by his desire to see Sherlock achieve release.

It had seemed like endless moments, but really it was less than two minutes before Sherlock woke up. He didn't snap awake as he normally did, asleep one moment and totally awake the next, but instead drifted through several stages. He thought he was dreaming. Really, it was a logical conclusion. He was feeling things, some familiar - like the subtle burn of John's cock stretching him, the intense fullness of his occupancy of Sherlock's body, the tingle in his belly that had become expected - and some wholly _un_ familiar. Like the sharp, startling pleasure streaking through his cock, or the strange pressure in his testicles, or the blinding shots of _ecstasy_ that stole his breath every time John's cock hit that spot inside of him.

It wasn't until John's lips pressed, warm and tender and soft, against Sherlock's shoulder that he realized he wasn't dreaming. That John was sliding in and out of him, stroking Sherlock's cock in time with the relentless drive of his hips, forcing pleasure so acute through him that it stole all rational thought. Mindlessly, he pressed back into the ingress of John's cock, needing more, needing… _some_ thing. The pressure in his bollocks had become nearly unbearable, drawn tightly up against his body in a desperate need to release but seeming robbed of the ability to.

"John," he breathed raggedly, his hand fluttering above John's, uncertain whether to pull it away or press it further. John's movements hitched for a split second, then resumed, his speed increasing ever so slightly.

"Sherlock," he whispered back. His breath was hot against Sherlock's shoulder. He pressed another kiss there, then another.

"John… _John_!"

"That's it, Sherlock, just like that." John's gentle praise went through Sherlock like a drug, washing him with almost as much pleasure as the sex. "Does that feel good, love?"

The sound that escaped Sherlock's throat was one he'd never heard himself make before, half groan, half keen, breathless and helpless and needy. It _did_ feel good, there was no doubt, but it was too… too...everything. He felt overwhelmed, totally lost amidst the pleasure. He didn't think he could find his way to release. But the pleasure continued to build and build within him, casting him further adrift. The tightness in his chest, his stark joy and utter confusion at John's usage of the endearment _love_ stimulated him even more deeply. His throat felt thick, his eyes burned. He whimpered, too caught up in the storm of feeling to hate himself for the weak sound.

"Can you come for me?" John asked huskily in his ear. Sherlock felt paralyzed with confusion. He wanted more, wanted the pleasure never to end, but he also wanted to beg John to stop, to release him from the frighteningly intense feelings which were surging through him. He managed a weak groan, his limbs beginning to shake uncontrollably. "Sherlock?"

He tried to shake his head, tried to speak, to do anything but lay there and accept the pleasure being pounded into him but was totally helpless. "Sherlock?" John's soft question came again, laced with concern this time. He slowed his movements to nearly a stop making Sherlock barely suppress a sob, but of relief or frustration he wasn't sure. John pushed himself up on one elbow so that he could look at Sherlock's face. There were tears streaming down it unchecked. "Jesus!" He stopped immediately, frozen with shock. "Jesus, Sherlock, I'm… I'm-" he broke off, at a complete loss. He felt sick.

It wasn't until John moved to pull out that something within Sherlock came to a decision. His hand, which had been clenched and trembling, reached back and clamped down tightly on John's hip, preventing his retreat. "Don't-" he managed to bite out, voice hoarse and tight.

"Sherlo-"

"John!" He rocked back hard, impaling himself on John's cock. They both gasped. John kept still for a moment longer, warring with himself, then, finally, began to move again. The overwhelming pleasure tore through Sherlock again, taking his breath away. It was still too much, too intense, but he wanted- he needed-

He reached down, wrapped his fingers over the top of John's, and squeezed tightly. The pain bit him viciously, causing more tears to stream down his face, but it grounded him enough to face the pleasure. He could hear, dimly, John calling his name, distressed at the pain Sherlock was causing himself, but he ignored it. He struggled for leverage to thrust backwards, to keep up the pounding pleasure John had ceased providing, continuing to squeeze his cock so tightly it began to border on agony. Just when he thought he would pass out from the dual sensations, the tip of John's cock slammed against his prostate and he was crying out raggedly, brokenly, getting release from the pressure that felt slightly hollow because his hand was gripped too tightly to allow himself to ejaculate but it was enough, it was relief, it was-

His grip slackened just a little and John managed to rip his hand away. He scrambled back across the bed, nearly falling off of it in his haste.

"What… what the _fuck_!" He ran a shaking hand over his face, eyes darting over Sherlock's body. "Christ…"

Sherlock laid there for a moment, letting the aftershocks of pain and pleasure grip him, then slowly pushed himself up. He stared down at his rapidly softening cock, angry red marks from John's fingers striping it. Already, he felt a twinge of guilt that he'd forced _John's_ hand to cause the actual pain. He knew that John would feel responsible, somehow. And maybe, in a small way, he was. Either way, Sherlock wasn't upset. Confused, uncomfortable, abashed, but not upset. He gingerly shifted, realizing just how sore his arse was, then lifted a hand to wipe away the moisture on his face. Only when all the tears were gone did he raise his eyes to look at John. John, who was staring at him as though he was a stranger, horror and guilt written clearly across his face.

"How badly are you hurt?" John finally asked, breaking the silence that had begun to grow brittle between them. Rather than insult John's concern by dismissing it, Sherlock did a small evaluation of his body. His whole middle was sore, but there was no stark pain. A slight burn still at his rim, an ache in his hips, and dull throbbing in his cock, but nothing seemed seriously damaged.

"Nothing a little rest and a hot bath won't cure," he answered honestly. John studied him, looking for any deceit, but there was none to be found. Finally, he sighed and stood up.

"This- this was my fault. I'm sorry. I'm so-" he broke off, his voice cracking. When Sherlock would have reached out, John drew back and spoke again. "I'm going to go take a shower and… think. Later, we should… we'll need to talk." Sherlock nodded mutely and let John leave the room. When the sound of the water came on from below, Sherlock let himself fall back against the pillows and tried to sort out his thoughts.

Rather than the calm clarity that normally settled on him like a warm blanket when he turned his mind loose, he felt… empty. He stared up at the ceiling blankly, not sure where he was even supposed to start. It wasn't until he heard the water turn off again that he realized just how long he'd been lost in that void. He forced himself to his feet, ignoring the swift ache that bloomed through his body, and made his way downstairs.

Thankfully, he was spared having to think for a few moments longer, as John had already moved to the living room. Sherlock turned the shower back on and stepped in, forcing himself to try and think again. When he finished washing, there wouldn't be any further reprieve. John would be waiting, and he would expect them to talk. He would want explanations. He would likely want to apologize, as well, which Sherlock wasn't sure was merited.

He didn't see it as a matter of consent (though John, being the more self deprecating of them, likely wondered if it was), but he _was_ confused by John's unasked for reach around. Sherlock had been consistent in moving John's hand any time it seemed as though he wanted to touch Sherlock there. John had never pushed. So why had he felt it was the right thing to do then?

It was obvious that he'd had an erection _before_ John started touching him, or he didn't think John would have done it at all. John would have found that too… untoward. Sherlock smirked a little at John's sensibilities. He wondered what John would have done if he'd been allowed to explore the erection Sherlock had gotten the night before. It had come as a surprise to Sherlock, thickening and lengthening without even the stimulation of his prostate that John liked to experiment with. Sherlock wasn't sure if his body was simply becoming programmed to enjoy the sensation of John thrusting into him, or if the intensity of John's need had been what aroused him, but Sherlock had certainly been aroused, no matter the reason.

There had been that slight burn, the sweet ache, the tingle that started in his belly and spread, and it had felt _good_. Not overwhelming the way their most recent tryst had been, but still pleasant and arousing. His cock had curved up towards his stomach, bobbing once or twice against the back of John's hand before Sherlock drew it away.

He still wasn't certain why he'd kept John from touching him. Had he known it would be overwhelmingly intense, the way it had been earlier? Was he worried John would put all his focus on trying to pleasure Sherlock, trying to get him off when Sherlock wasn't even sure it was possible? Or had he been clinging stubbornly to the idea that he wasn't interested in sex, that such base desires didn't reach him?

It was likely some combination of all three. He felt as if he was standing on uneven ground. His whole perception of himself was beginning to shift, and he was unsettled that he couldn't see what was coming next. He had started this Plan as a way to keep John to himself. It was supposed to be all about John. And still, it had become something more. They were closer, and not just sexually. They did things couples did, things that served no other purpose than to be pleasant. Things that wouldn't have been pleasant for Sherlock if they had been with anyone other than John.

He never thought he would ever abide sleeping with someone, and yet he slept better in John's arms than he ever had in his life.

With careful evasion and self-deception, he'd been able ignore the deeper implications of all those emotional milestones between them. His physical reactions to John, it seemed, would no be so easy to ignore.

As if it sensed the direction of his thoughts, Sherlock's cock twitched. He glanced down at it under the stream of water, studying it the way one might look at a particularly difficult puzzle. It twitched again, then sluggishly began to rise. Before Sherlock had time to be surprised - _two_ erections in a day? - the pain hit him again. What had been a dull throbbing erupted into a sharp, angry pulse. It was white hot and insistent, getting worse the more the erection grew. Sherlock could see livid red marks forking out across the pale skin where blood vessels had burst under his grip. He stared at them with a kind of morbid fascination, dimly noting somewhere in this brain that it would be best for all parties if John didn't see them.

The water began to rapidly cool, making the erection flag. Sherlock realized with a start how much time he'd spent standing in the shower and mentally shook himself. He was supposed to have everything worked out by the time he faced John again, have all the answers to give in cool, detached logic that John would be forced to agree with. Instead, he found himself entering the living room with no answers at all. He cinched his dressing gown around his middle and settled slowly into his chair.

John nudged a cup of tea his direction. Pausing a moment to make sure he wouldn't wince when he sat forward, he accepted the cup and took a sip. As the hot liquid rolled pleasantly over his tongue, John sat down his own cup and ran a hand through his still damp hair.

"Okay, first things first. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"John."

"No, don't. Just let me. I shouldn't have just jumped on you like that, and I certainly shouldn't have been trying to get you off when you've never been okay with that before. I won't do something like that without your permission again."

"An apology for 'jumping on me' is wholly unnecessary and I'm not even going to validate it with a reply. I told you when we started this that I would be available to you in that capacity. I'm glad you did it. As for… the other," he cleared his throat, took a sip of his tea to stall for a moment, then spoke again. "As for that, I feel an apology is unnecessary, but I accept it nonetheless. It was… unexpected. I assume you'll want to discuss the matter further."

"Yes. Yes I do. What-" he rubbed his palms against his thighs, the cotton of his sleep pants absorbing the moisture that had gathered there. "What the hell happened? I thought… I mean, it seemed like you were… enjoying it. But then you…" he winced, glancing at Sherlock's groin as if he could see the damage through the fabric covering it. "You _hurt_ yourself and it- it got you off?"

Sherlock sighed, not sure how he was going to explain it to John when he wasn't entirely certain about what had happened himself. Still, John seemed to ground him, to center his thoughts, to conduct his energy like a lightning rod. "I _was_ en-enjoying it." He tripped on the word a little, hating himself for how mundane he sounded. "It felt _good_ , just too… too… much. It wasn't like the pleasure was something I was taking passively, but rather like I was being held hostage by it. I couldn't think, could hardly move, breathe, _anything_ , and it was so much more than anything I'd ever felt that I couldn't… I couldn't find any release. So it just built and built until I didn't know _what-_ "

"I would have stopped," John whispered, his eyes stark.

"Of course you would have. Do you think I don't know that all it would have taken was one sign from me and you would have stopped immediately? I just didn't want… I didn't know what I wanted."

"And the pain?"

"A counterpoint to the pleasure. Something to ground me, to separate me from the pleasure enough to get relief. Something to make it seem real."

John nodded, accepting it even if he couldn't really understand. "Alright, then. I… that's fine. But I can't do that again. Not like that. I can't- can't hurt you."

"You didn't-"

"It was _my_ hand, and I caused it. I can't do that again, Sherlock. Not like that."

"Okay," Sherlock said slowly, praying that John wasn't trying to call off their arrangement. "Then we can just go back. To the way things were before that. If I happen to get another erection, we ignore it."

"That's totally unfair to you."

"Why?"

"Sherlock," John's gaze was sharp. "You know why. If you're getting hard, then there's something… I mean, you're becoming aroused, right?" He waited for Sherlock's hesitant nod, then returned it. "So then it's not right for me to just get off and leave you… like that."

"There is a distinct possibility that I will never be able to orgasm during sex from pleasure alone, John."

"But there are other things we can try," John countered a little desperately.

"Like?" Sherlock raised one brow a little imperiously to cover for how inadequate his knowledge of sex was. John huffed out a little breath like he was relieved Sherlock was even considering the idea.

"It doesn't have to be so… intense. We could work our way up to that. But to start- I mean, when you've gotten hard before, you, uh, take care of it, right? With your hand?"

"Exceedingly rarely, but it has happened," Sherlock admitted.

"We could try that first, then. Not during sex like this morning, but just by itself."

"Are you suggesting we start having sex, wait till I get an erection, then stop so you can try to get me off? That sounds ridiculous. And counter productive, considering the whole point of this plan was for _you_ to get off."

"Well not necessarily like that, though I think getting you off should be just as important to what we're doing as getting me off is. But you get hard other ways, don't you? Not just from sex."

"Not often, no. Usually there isn't any external stimuli that arouses me, but rather a simple physical build up that eventually seeks release."

"Ok-ay…" John drew out the word, forehead scrunched up as he thought. "Well, we could either wait until that happens again, or we could try to… coax it along."

"Oral sex?" Sherlock had his head cocked to the side, his eyes so totally innocent as he queried, that John had to chuckle. When had his life become so bizarre?

"That's one possibility, but I think even that might be too much for you at first. I'd suggest starting more… subtly."

"Manual stimulation. Your hand, then."

This time, John's chuckle became a laugh. "Look, you trust me, don't you?" Sherlock waited a beat, half tempted to make some disparaging remark about John's intelligence because _of course_ Sherlock trusted him, but he realized this was a very different kind of trust they were discussing. Even still, the answer was the same. There wasn't a single doubt in Sherlock's mind.

"Yes."

"Good. Good, then. We'll just… I'll do some things and we'll see what happens."

"Am I to be included in this planning, or will you be keeping me in suspense?" Sherlock asked with one brow raised casually. John smiled a little, something wicked and eager behind his eyes.

"I can tell you if you need me to… but I want to see how long it will take you to figure it out yourself, if you can manage it."

The challenge was clear, and it was so plain to see that John was purposely pushing his buttons that Sherlock considered denying him just to deprive him of the satisfaction. In the end, though, his curiosity and the thrill of the game were too great. He tented his fingers under his chin, smirked, and inclined his head. "As you wish."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock knew, almost immediately, what John's plan was. He also knew that figuring out the exact nature of the plan was not even remotely what John had been challenging him to.

Lestrade had contacted them about a case that afternoon, one that ended up being one of the most challenging and exciting of the year. And through it all, John carried out his little plan. He was subtle, especially when they were around others, but overt enough for Sherlock to want to roll his eyes at the audacity of him. He wanted to scoff, to chastise him for the simplicity of his plan, to tell him that there was no way it wouldn't work.

But…

But despite his intellect rebelling against the sheer baseness of it, his body had no such qualms. So every time John brushed up against him and lingered, every time the trousers John wore were half a size smaller than normal, every time the kindly doctor exterior faded and was replaced by Captain John Watson, Sherlock found himself being pulled more and more deeply under the sexual thrall John was creating.

Was it because no one had ever wooed him before? Men and women both had made passes at him on multiple occasions. He'd even had one or two claim to love him. But no one had ever set out to so thoroughly seduce him. Perhaps, if it had been merely sexual in nature, he might have been able to resist. But John- John knew him better than that. There was plenty physical in the seduction, touches that strayed just this side of indecent and lips brushing against his ear as John whispered huskily to him, but so much more of it was intellectual. John bantered with him, teased him and praised him. John treated him, not like a freak - the way so many of his fans inadvertently did - not like a colleague or a flat mate or even just a friend. He treated Sherlock like a lover.

It made sense, of course, since that's exactly what they were. Still, Sherlock had never expected someone to behave that way with him. Even if he'd foreseen himself as a sexual partner to someone, he wouldn't have thought they would ever be so deferential to him without being condescending, that they could be so affectionate without being smothering.

Perhaps it was the years that they had known each other, all the time they had spent with each other, but John knew exactly how to walk the line between too much and just enough. What was more, he made it look effortless. With anyone else, Sherlock would have thought they were trying too hard, that it could never last. Not John. He navigated the pitfalls with a simple grace that few knew the doctor capable of.

And it was having exactly the effect on Sherlock that John had known it would. When he rested his hand on Sherlock's thigh and told him how brilliant his deduction had been, when he leaned against Sherlock as the criminal they had been chasing was carted away and praised his skill in capturing the man, Sherlock felt himself flutter with anticipation.

By the time the case was solved, Sherlock had been struggling against his burgeoning erection for days. He knew, just knew, that if John told him one more time how incredible he was or how fantastic his work had been, Sherlock was going to come in his pants. How was it possible that the great Sherlock Holmes, who had turned his nose up at dozens of beautiful suitors, who had cast aside all sexual needs at a young age, could be undone so thoroughly by a few words of praise?

If it had been anyone else, he might have stood a chance. Anyone else in the world could have said those things to him, and while they would have weakened him and enraptured him, they wouldn't have swayed him. But coming from John… coming from the one person in the whole world whose opinion Sherlock respected above all others, Sherlock was utterly helpless.

John had sat close to him in the cab on the ride home, only just not touching him. It had taken all of Sherlock's considerable will power not to close the distance between them, to press himself against John's side. He knew what was coming. Not the specifics, no, but he knew that this was the time John would act. The anticipation roiled in his belly, making his hands tremble ever so slightly when he opened the door handle.

He led the way into 221b, up the stairs and into the flat, with John following close on his heels. As he stepped across the threshold, he barely had time to wonder how long he would have to wait for John to make his move before he was turned and pushed back against the door. His breath left him in a heated rush. John's eyes were blazing. The promise in them called to Sherlock on a base level that he hadn't realized even existed.

"Sherlock," John whispered roughly, pressing against him and rocking his hips subtly. Sherlock could feel the thick length of John's erection against his own. There was a pause, one brief moment where John looked up at him as if waiting for protest or doubt, but when Sherlock showed no sign of either, their lips crashed together. John's tongue explored his mouth in coaxing strokes, his hands began tugging at Sherlock's clothes. His coat and shoes were lost by the front door. His shirt was cast off halfway up the stairs along with John's own, and his trousers dropped outside the door to John's room.

Every time Sherlock tried to grab John's cock, John redirected him. It was frustrating, not least because almost every moment of sexual pleasure Sherlock had ever had was while John had been getting off. Would John expect to get nothing out of this? It wasn't something Sherlock thought he was comfortable with. Being the only recipient of pleasure… it would be too much, feel too akin to being under a microscope.

"John, I want…" he stopped, trying again to grab John's cock.

"Trust me, Sherlock," John whispered to him, capturing his wrist and pinning it behind him.

"I do. But I can't… not just me, John. Please. I can't-"

John kissed him then, leading him the last few steps to the bed and urging him down on it. He caressed the side of Sherlock's face. "I know," he murmured. "We're both going to enjoy this, I promise. Just let me know if it gets to be too much, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, swallowing thickly. When John positioned him on his hands and knees, he felt as if a weight had left him. This was something he was familiar with. He knew what to expect from this. There was some vague swoop of disappointment in knowing he wouldn't be able to come, but he was relieved to be back on territory he knew and understood. He wondered, idly, if one day he wouldn't learn how to come just from John driving into him like this. It wasn't unheard of, he knew - from reading he'd done recently and would never admit to - but he also knew that not all men were capable of it. Still, with how much his body was becoming programmed to respond to John's touch, he thought it might be possible. Maybe he could just enjoy the sensations until that day came, and-

Strong, slick fingers wrapped around Sherlock's erection. He hissed in a breath and his back arched. "J-John!" John's other hand slipped between his legs from behind and spread lube on his thighs. Confusion skipped along the sexual tide he was being pulled out on until he felt John's cock slip between his thighs and thrust once, twice. Sherlock groaned low, utterly lost amid the pleasure. This time, though, instead of feeling alone in the sea of sensation, he felt grounded by John. Having John moving between his legs like this gave him the feeling of being fucked without the overwhelming, impossible pleasure of it. He was able to focus on the feel of John's hand on his cock, stroking it firmly.

John's grip was firm but gentle, his strokes more even and smooth than Sherlock's own had ever been. The tingle that usually took up residence in his belly when John was driving into him instead took up residence at the base of his spine. It wrapped itself around him and began sending sparks out across his body in hot, erratic shoots. He rocked back against John, eager for more. John obliged him by speeding up his movements, stroking Sherlock faster and moving his own hips just as quickly.

"You feel so fucking good," John whispered, ending on a groan. Sherlock's cock twitched, and John's jumped in response. "I love the way your cock feels in my hand, knowing you're this hard for me. That you're giving yourself to me and only me. God, you're so beautiful. I can't believe you're mine."

Sherlock's breath caught, his heart slamming in his chest. He shuddered and moaned, caught up in John's web. The reaction to praise he knew and understood. His reaction to John's possessiveness took him wholly by surprise, though. And John had noticed it.

"You're mine, Sherlock. Mine. I want you to come for me."

Sherlock shuddered again, awash with pleasure and pushed right to the brink. "Yes," he gasped. "I want-" he broke off, bucking his hips eagerly, helplessly, desperately. It was there, right there, but just beyond his reach. His legs shook and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "Please," he whispered.

"I've got you, Sherlock. I've got you and I'm never letting go. You've done so well, you're so close. Just let go, love. Come with me."

The tension that had been building in Sherlock - perhaps for his whole life - released in an explosion that rocked his body violently. Pleasure the likes of which he'd never known consumed him. He came hard against the sheets, the streaks of white mixing with John's as he came too. Sherlock felt as if he was being ripped apart by the sensation and sewn back together anew. Each time John stroked his cock, more slowly and gently now, it drew out his orgasm until he wanted to squirm away from it.

Finally, when he was so exhausted he didn't think he could hold himself upright for a single moment longer, John released him. He flopped gracelessly to the side, just barely missing the large wet spot on the bed. John, seeming to have slightly more rational thought at the moment, grabbed his towel from that morning and dropped it over the spot before stretching out beside Sherlock. He stroked Sherlock's skin softly, a small smile curling his lips.

"So smug," Sherlock whispered hoarsely a few moments later, a little smirk twisting his own lips as well.

"I'm happy. There's a difference."

"Oh, come on, you're more smug than the cat that got the canary."

"I might be a little proud of myself," he admitted. "But I'm proud of you, too."

"Of me? Whyever for?"

"You know why. Just take the compliment and relax. You were incredible."

"You did all the work, but I won't contradict you."

"Good, because you were. I hope that was half as good for you as it was for me."

"Doubtful," Sherlock said sternly. Just when John started to frown, he added, "I'm certain it was twice as good."

"Prat," John laughed. He tugged lightly on Sherlock's hair, then slid his hand around to cup Sherlock's cheek. "It was okay for you, then? Not too much?"

"It was intense, but not too much, no. Having only one point to focus on, along with knowing you were getting pleasure from it, as well as… as you talking… added up to the perfect combination."

"You do seem to like when I talk to you."

Sherlock felt heat rise to his face and hoped the darkness in the room was deep enough for John not to see how pink the tips of his ears had just gotten. "Yes, well I'm sure there is some inane psychological theory about people getting sexual gratification from their lovers' praise and endearments."

"Probab- wait, endearments?"

"You.. ah, you called-" he stumbled, shocked that John hadn't realized he'd been using the term. It made sense, of course, people said all kinds of things in sexual situations they didn't mean. That was fine. It was fine. Really. He cleared his throat to get past the tightness there. "Just, you've called me 'love' before. And now. At the end. Ridiculous, really, just a meaningless word, and I-"

"Oh." John's single exclamation cut Sherlock off. He fought the urge to fidget like a child waiting for punishment. "Oh, I didn't even notice I was saying that. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. Like I said, just a meaningless word."

"But it's not. Meaningless, I mean."

"Not literally, no, but-"

"Not for you, either. Not meaningless at all. You know that, don't you, Sherlock?" John's eyes pierced the darkness to meet his, that one look seeming to rob the room of oxygen.

"I-" Sherlock stopped, dumbstruck.

"I won't say anything you're not ready for me to. I don't want to pressure you or ask you for more than you can give. But you should know. You should know and if you wanted, if you didn't mind, I'd tell you every day, every free moment."

"That… that would be very impractical," Sherlock finally managed to say. John smiled, then chuckled.

"Prat."

"Yes, but your prat, it would seem."

"That you are," John agreed, his eyelids growing heavy. "For as long as you're willing."

Sherlock nodded, his body suddenly seeming drained of all energy. "I'm glad," he admitted. "And… in so much as someone like me is able, not that there is anyone like me, but regardless, as much as it is possible, with everything I am capable of… I do as well."

John took a moment to follow the twists of his words, but then realized what Sherlock was trying to tell him. Chest tight and heart full, John pulled him close and held him. He felt like there should be more words to say, something to acknowledge the enormous hurdle Sherlock had just crossed, something assuring and admiring and encouraging, but he couldn't find a single thing to say. Instead, he held Sherlock tighter, kissed the top of his head, and let himself fall into a blissful sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

It was strange, to John, how very little the routine of their days had changed considering how radically their nocturnal activities had altered. The next day, Sherlock went about his business like always. He ignored texts from his brother, passed off paperwork from the case they'd just completed to John, and made a general bother of himself striding about the flat.

John was trying to write up the case for the blog, but kept getting distracted by Sherlock flitting around. He was wearing nothing but pants and his dressing gown, moving agitatedly between the microscopes on the kitchen table. Obviously the experiment he was working on wasn't going well. He muttered something - likely disparaging - under his breath and tossed a tray holding what looked like a human ear aside.

It wasn't until he began rummaging in the refrigerator for more body parts that John made up his mind. He rose quietly - not that he needed to; Sherlock in a snit wouldn't hear a bomb go off next door let alone someone on the stairs - and went to fetch the bottle of lube from his nightstand.

He wasn't particularly horny. No moreso than he always seemed to be around Sherlock these days, at least. For a man his age, once a day was pretty damn good, and he didn't feel the need to push that, except that he wondered how far this new arrangement with Sherlock went.

With the exception of the week before when he'd been trying to seduce Sherlock purposely, they hadn't really done anything unusual out of the bedroom. It was as if they'd partitioned off that aspect of their relationship. Yes, there were a few other things that had changed between them, but not really anything that reflected a significant sexual relationship.

He was well aware that Sherlock might push him away. Might give him a resounding no and sigh in exasperation. That was his right and John would absolutely respect that. Still, there was a chance that Sherlock would welcome the unusual timing. That he would be more than willing for sex to spill out into other times of their lives.

Hopeful but prepared for rejection, John entered the kitchen. Sherlock had returned whatever tub of indiscernible goo he'd just pulled out back to the fridge, muttering about coagulation.

"Really, we should just rent the basement flat from Mrs. Hudson so that I have room for an industrial refrigerator. The inconvenience of this is getting ridiculous."

"Be nice to not have guts next to the bangers, too," John agreed sagely. Sherlock nodded, gesturing with his hands.

"There would be more room for your- oh!" He stopped, dropping his hands and studying John curiously. "Hello," he greeted, surprised to see John in the kitchen. Had they been talking? He couldn't remember.

"Hi," John returned with a smile. This happened a lot, actually. Sherlock barely noticing when he came or went. Once his mind got to whirring, very little could faze it. Still, it was a good sign that he'd acknowledged John so readily. "I was just thinking about some… exercise."

"We've had a great deal of physical activity the last week, John. I thought you'd be ready for a well earned rest. If you're worried about your waistline, I can assure you that-"

John chuckled. "No, I'm not worried I'm getting fat. I meant something different. Maybe something that could be diverting for both of us." He stepped closer, bring his body a scant inch away from Sherlock's.

"I don't follow. Explain," Sherlock demanded, his head cocked to the side. Really, it shouldn't be so disarming that Sherlock was utterly oblivious. Anyone else would have picked up on John's innuendo a mile away. Oh, it would drive Sherlock mad if he knew that. John smirked a little.

"I was thinking about bending you over that chair, if you'd let me."

"Whyever would you- Oh." Sherlock's swift inhale of breath told John that he'd finally caught on. Which was good, because his next step had been paraphrasing Sherlock's own words from that fateful first night. My cock, your arse. "Well, I-" He stopped, coloring slightly. "Really?"

"Unless you'd rather not." John kept his voice carefully light. He didn't want Sherlock to feel pressured.

"I'm just… surprised. We are past your refractory period, but usually you aren't specifically looking for release for another-" he checked his watch, "eight and a quarter hours, at least."

John shrugged, a slight smile still tugging his lips. Sherlock studied him, assessing, weighing options, coming to conclusions. His chest rose and fell fractionally faster. For one asinine moment, he felt like one of Pavlov's dogs, salivating in programmed reaction. Ridiculous. Even still, his cock twitched inside his pants.

This was new. New was exciting. Exhilarating. Especially with John. No, they hadn't had sex during the day like this before - excepting the odd blow job, which Sherlock didn't count - but surely it wasn't all that unusual. Sex wasn't some sin that needed to be committed under the cover of darkness. There was no reason that John shouldn't get release any time day or night.

In reply, he took off his dressing gown and draped it over the table. It only took him two steps to reach the back of John's chair, the grey striped blanket hanging over its back. "This chair?" he inquired. John swallowed, as if Sherlock's acquiescence had surprised him, then nodded. He paused a beat, then followed Sherlock to the chair. Sherlock hadn't turned, so John's front pressed lightly against his back. Both of their heart rates had increased, and Sherlock was sure that the heat radiating off of John's skin was matched by his own. "Shall I just-" he stopped talking, demonstrating by bending slightly and bracing his hands on the back of the chair. The soft fabric of the blanket bunched under his hands.

Sherlock expected John to push his pants down and start preparing his body right away. Instead, John began kissing down Sherlock's back. He pressed his lips to every vertebra, lingering at the base of his spine. He must have been kneeling, though Sherlock couldn't see him, because the stubble of his cheek rasped against Sherlock's lower back while his hands traced lazy circles up the inside of Sherlock's thighs.

Already, Sherlock found himself covered in a light sheen of perspiration. His hair wasn't even dry from his shower that morning, but Sherlock knew he would need another before the day was through. His cock twitched again. John's hands drew higher and higher until they reached the waistband of his pants and began tugging them down. His lips followed their path for a moment, then he leaned back and urged Sherlock's feet up one at a time to slip the pants totally free.

When John's hands returned, this time one of them rested on Sherlock's back, pressing down gently. Sherlock complied, lowering his torso - his arse rising by extension. John's other hand nudged his legs further apart, leaving him open and vulnerable. Any moment, he expected to feel the press of John's fingers, slick and cool-

"Fuck!" The epithet was torn from Sherlock as John's tongue pressed against him. The fingers he'd anticipated were instead gripping Sherlock's hips, holding him in place. John's tongue traced the exposed opening of him, circling softly and then slipping inside. Sherlock went rigid and fought not to curse again. This was… he was… Nothing came to mind that could complete the thought. He was blissfully, frighteningly blank. It felt good. It felt incredible. Having John lapping softly at the most delicate, sensitive spot on his body- it was more than his brain could compute.

The licks continued, quickly followed by open mouthed, wet kisses, then another thrust of his tongue through tight muscle. Sherlock groaned, his cock now fully hard and twitching eagerly. Half of him hoped that John would reach around and grab it, stroke it in time with the thrusts of his tongue, but the other half of him was terrified of how intense that would feel. Too much. Far too much.

Instead of letting the indecision drive him mad, Sherlock surrendered to the sensation. He let his head fall forward, hanging limply between his arms. He wasn't sure he ever wanted this feeling to end, but suddenly he was gripped by the overwhelming desire to feel something much larger thrusting into him. He wanted John's cock. Wanted John to fuck him, now, bent over the chair wantonly.

"John," he whispered huskily, pressing his hips back for more even while hoping John would stand and give him something different. "John, fuck me."

It was John's turn to moan in arousal. No, he would never tire of hearing Sherlock say those words. He rose after one final, deep thrust with his tongue, then opened the lube bottle and spread the slickness over his cock. "Are you ready for me, Sherlock?"

"Yes," Sherlock returned emphatically. "Now."

"Christ I love hearing you like this. Knowing you want me." He lined himself up and began to slowly press forward. Sherlock's body was already so attuned from John's rimming that the tip of his cock slipped in quickly. They both hissed, pleasure and heat and intensity gripping them. Slowly, John moved his hips forward until he was buried as deep as he could go. His cock throbbed, engulfed in pleasure and eager for more. He drew back and thrust forward again. Sherlock's body accepted him, clenching around him intoxicatingly. "Do you want me to touch your cock, Sherlock?" John asked, thrusting again.

Sherlock tried to catch his breath and think. He wasn't sure what he wanted. His cock was hard and aching, begging for attention, but with how worked up Sherlock already was, he wasn't sure he would be able to handle it. Already, it was almost too much. He shook his head finally, regretting that he couldn't enjoy this the way John did. The way someone normal would.

"Good," John breathed harshly, bucking his hips hard enough to rock Sherlock forward. Good? That was not John's usual reaction. "I want to do something different," he added, forcing out the words between thrusts. "I want to fuck you hard and fast until I come. I want it to make you hard and hot and desperate for release. And then I want to turn you around, drop to my knees, and make you come in my mouth."

The words alone made Sherlock nearly buckle. He moaned, helpless against the rush of desire and pleasure that engulfed him. His hands fisted in the blanket, clutching it like a lifeline.

"Will you let me do that, love? Will you let me suck your cock while your arse is still throbbing from me pounding it?" The slam of his hips had become rapid and erratic. John was already close. Was the idea of this turning him on, as well? Sherlock opened his mouth, moaning aloud and not bothering to try and stifle it.

"Y-yes," he rasped. He wanted that. God, he wanted that. It sounded so fucking perfect that he didn't think he'd ever needed anything more than he needed that. John's fingers threaded through his hair, then clenched into a fist and pulled his head back sharply. Sherlock cried out, his spine arching and the angle of John's thrusts becoming deeper. The tip of John's cock slammed against his prostate, making him jerk and nearly bite his tongue against the pleasure of it. Just like that, John was coming, pulsing inside of him as his release flooded Sherlock. He'd barely rode out his orgasm before he yanked his hips away, leaving Sherlock clenching desperately and shocked by the void.

John gripped Sherlock's arms tightly, spun him around, then dropped to his knees. In less than a second, his lips were wrapped around Sherlock's cock. It was unlike anything Sherlock had ever felt. He was already so close to the edge, spurred on by all of John's actions. John rubbed his tongue against the underside of his cock, then sucked hard. Unbidden, Sherlock's hands rose up and threaded through John's hair. He looked down, needing to see his cock disappearing into John's mouth, needing to burn the image into his brain. It wasn't John's mouth that enraptured him, though. It was his eyes, wide open and pupils dilated. Those steady brown eyes which had become as much home to him as Baker Street.

"Fuck, John!" Then he was there, tripping over the precipice he hadn't been sure he would ever cross this way. The juxtaposition of his throbbing arse and the wet suction on his cock was just enough to drive him into oblivion without looking back. He came hard, bucking his hips and curling his toes into the carpet just for the extra traction.

It wasn't until John coughed and sputtered that Sherlock realized he'd been rather brutally fucking the man's throat as he came. John had never even given a male oral sex before. What a terrible introduction. "Fuck," he repeated roughly. "I'm sorry." He tried to pull away, but John had caught his breath and gave him another suck. It sent a final bolt of pleasure through Sherlock. He gasped, squirming away this time on his own account. John finally released him and sat back on his heels, wiping his chin with a smile.

"Well that went even better than I hoped for."

Sherlock scoffed, then held out his hand to help John up. They made their way, half staggering half stumbling, to the couch. John collapsed gratefully on to it, but Sherlock had barely sat when he shot back up. "Just a moment." He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving John chuckling behind him, then reappeared again and sprawled out across John's lap. John began carding his hand through Sherlock's hair absently.

"So. That was a success, I'd say."

"That's one way of putting it," Sherlock agreed.

"You enjoyed it? All of it?"

"I did."

"None of it was too much? Uncomfortable?"

"It was… intense. But not overly so."

"Then this is something you'd want to do again?" John sounded so eager that sherlock had to chuckle.

"Well I'm certainly not opposed, but I didn't think you would be so keen considering how much abuse your throat took at the end."

"That part was a bit rough, I'll admit, but Christ Sherlock, I'd let you choke me with your cock if it made you come like that."

"That's rather magnanimous of you," Sherlock observed, somewhat sourly. He didn't like the idea of choking John with his cock. He didn't like the idea of John choking at all. "Are you really so eager to make me orgasm?"

"Yes," John said emphatically.

"Why?" Sherlock still couldn't wrap his head around it. Why did it matter so much? Why couldn't John just continue to take his pleasure without fretting about Sherlock's?

"I like making you feel good. I want to bring you pleasure."

"But you don't need to. I haven't asked you for it."

"If you didn't need to, would you still want to keep having sex with me?"

"What?" Sherlock sat up, confusion written across his face. He hated feeling at a loss. He was so used to being fifteen steps ahead of everyone that it unnerved him to have no idea what John would say next.

John sighed, running a hand over his face as he struggled to find the right words. "Sherlock, I… These last months have been incredible. You've been incredible. And I don't just mean the sex. Doing this, with you, made me realize things that I had been blind to before. This isn't just about sex for me. Not any more. I'm- I care about you. This… this isn't just a convenience for me. I mean, it is, of course it's convenient, but there's more to it than that.

What I'm trying to say is that even without the sex, I'd stay. You don't have to let me fuck you to keep me here, with just you. I'm… committed to you, without any physical demands. I wouldn't want to have sex with anyone else at this point. Do you understand what I'm saying? You don't have to have sex with me to keep me to yourself. I'm yours, no sacrifices necessary."

"But you still want…" Sherlock gestured towards John's lap, too gobsmacked to articulate any further.

"Of course I do. Yes, I want that. Being with you is better than anything I've ever experienced. But I'm not going anywhere, even if I'm not getting that. So you don't need to do this just for me any more. I'm here, I'm staying, I'm not looking for anyone else. Sex or no."

"Eventually- eventually you would change your mind. It would build up until-"

"No. No it wouldn't. I don't want to be celibate, Sherlock, but I want you more. I'd work through it."

"But… why? You don't have to. I've already offered this."

"Because what you want, wanting you to want me, needing you to do these things with me because you desire them physically, is more important to me than just getting off. I'm not saying we have to stop. I'm saying that if you don't want to do this anymore, then we can stop. Nothing has to change with the rest of this. I'll still be here."

"You'd truly commit yourself to me alone, even if I chose never to have sex with you again?"

"I already have, Sherlock." John shrugged a little, his face a strange mix of affectionate and wistful. "The rest is up to you."

Sherlock just stared at him. It was nearly impossible for him to comprehend what John was offering. He wouldn't get involved with anyone else, would dedicate himself wholly to Sherlock alone, even if they didn't have sex? John was willing to give up sex entirely for him? It didn't make sense. Why would John tell him such a thing? Why take the risk that Sherlock would take him up on the offer, when he could have continued on as they had been before?

He thought back to what they'd been discussing before this strange turn of events. He'd been asking John why he was so driven to give Sherlock release. Why he wanted it so much. It wasn't necessary. He didn't get anything out of it, aside, perhaps, from the simple satisfaction of seeing Sherlock's pleasure.

Suddenly, it began to make sense. He understood why John wanted to give him that relief, even though he didn't need to. Because now, knowing that John could be his without sex, Sherlock still wanted to give it to him. Not just because they'd discovered that Sherlock could get physical satisfaction from the act - though that was an incredible bonus - but because he wanted John to get that pleasure of his own. He wanted to make John happy, even if it was at his own expense.

It was only by very happy coincidence, and a lot of groundwork laid by John, that Sherlock was beginning to see it wouldn't be any expense to him at all. He smiled, chest tight with emotion that he had no desire to fight. Instead, he crossed the space between them. Ignoring their size difference, he crawled into John's lap and wrapped his arms around John's neck.

"Sherlock?" John looked up at him, hopeful but confused. Sherlock kissed him. Lightly at first, slow and sweet, but then deeper until neither of them could catch their breath. Until Sherlock was rocking against him and wondering just what, exactly, his own refractory period was.

"Does this mean-" John asked, breaking the kiss and panting, "-that you've decided not to stop having sex with me?"

"You mean before we've reached the final lesson? My, Doctor Watson, don't you know me at all? I never do anything in half measures." He smirked, kissed John again, and got up to fetch the lube.


	7. Chapter 7

It became a race, of sorts, to see which would be what Sherlock learned to do next - orgasm via penetration and manual stimulation, or from penetration alone. John seemed convinced that his reach around would be the winner, but secretly Sherlock thought that penetration would win out. He'd resigned himself to being a Pavlovian poster child. Not only was his prostate now far more accepting of manipulation, but the simple feel of John thrusting into him was enough to make Sherlock aroused to the point of desperation.

Now, any time Sherlock didn't orgasm while they had sex - whether because he stopped John from stroking his cock because it was too much or because John's thrusting against his prostate wasn't enough - John eagerly offered to get Sherlock off another way.

There were times when his erection waned as soon as John climaxed. Times when all he really wanted was to provide John pleasure. Those times, he thanked John for the offer but declined. They would lay pressed together in bed, John putting up expected resistance, and eventually fall asleep in each other's arms.

Other times, Sherlock was so close to release, so eager for orgasm, that he nearly sobbed with relief when John took his cock into his hand or mouth. He would come spectacularly down the doctor's throat or stripe his chest with hot, white spurts. Those times, too, they fell asleep wrapped around each other.

Each time Sherlock came at John's bidding, his confidence in his ability to do more (and his desire to) grew. Soon he was angling his hips to get the best friction of John's cock against his prostate, or putting his fingers over John's to stroke his erection faster.

It wasn't until a time when Sherlock had no designs on coming that it finally happened.

They were in the middle of a case. Not a three patch problem by any means, but something interesting enough to Sherlock that he didn't feel the pressing need to find physical release. Still, he wanted to provide it for John, so he'd provoked the doctor into fucking him that night.

John was frustrated about the situation. Not that he didn't want to have sex. He did. He'd been unusually horny all week and there hadn't been time for sex before. It was that he still struggled with guilt over fucking Sherlock when he had no desire to come. John knew all Sherlock's arguments. He brought up all the things that the people who cared for him did simply because they wanted to provide, to show affection. It didn't seem the same to him.

Not only that, but Sherlock had put himself in danger twice already during this case, and John was irritated with him over it. He didn't like seeing Sherlock in danger. He never had. Yes, it came with the territory of what they did, but Sherlock still didn't need to be taking unnecessary risks.

The logical thing to do, to handle his guilt as well as the protective instincts clawing him, would have been to either resist Sherlock's seduction, or to have him slowly. Sweetly. Tenderly. To be gentle with him.

Unfortunately, John Watson was not always a logical man. He grew waspish when irritated, he overreacted when stressed. Instead of kissing Sherlock and worshiping his body and making love to him, John pinned him to the bed and fucked him into the mattress. He made sure that what he was doing wouldn't hurt Sherlock, but that was the extent of his consideration. He pounded all of his frustration into his partner's body, being rough and demanding and not really listening to the words he was growling down at Sherlock.

Sherlock, who was familiar with John's snits and how he acted during them, had been expecting the sex to be rough. He never minded rough sex, even in the middle of a case. John was never so hard on him that it interfered with the work, and there was something arousing about driving the steady, patient doctor past all reason. He liked seeing John lose control, reveled in the pure sexual domineering of it. John was magnificent when he became a mindless fucking machine.

So Sherlock had expected, when he'd very purposely seduced John, that he was going to be fucked. What he hadn't counted on, couldn't have planned for, never would have dreamed of, was his reaction to it. Instead of keeping him up on his hands and knees as they usually did (when not fucking in one of the many other positions they'd branched out to in the months they'd been having sex) John had pushed him flat against the mattress before driving into him. The depth of his thrusts, the angle he hit, the force of it, was all new.

Sherlock hadn't been hard while John had prepped him. Normally he was at least at half mast from John's ministrations, but this time he'd been uninterested except for John's sake. So when his cock shot rock hard, trapped between his abdomen and the mattress, it was a shock. Pleasure slammed through him with enough force to take his breath away. John's cock was merciless in its assault of his prostate. Sherlock had always scoffed at the description of 'blinding pleasure' or 'flashing light' in terms of sex, but he suddenly retracted all those doubts. Even with his eyes closed, it felt as if he was watching lightning fork down behind his eyelids. His whole body was struck, again and again, by the overwhelming pleasure.

If John had been touching his cock at all, Sherlock would have been begging for him to stop. Would have been trying to get away, to seek any kind of relief from the assault on his senses. Instead, the feeling of being pinned to the bed, the friction of his cock against the mattress, was just enough to keep him grounded. Sweat broke out over his body and pooled in the dip at the base of his spine. His limbs, which had been shaky from the moment John had slammed into him, began to tremble violently. He felt as though he had been sucked into a tornado and was being swirled into a vortex of dark pleasures which he stood no chance against.

Just when he thought the experience could get no more arousing, John started talking. He spoke through most of their sexual encounters. It was one of Sherlock's favorite things. Hearing John's voice making sensual promises, praising him in a steady stream of soft words… But this, this was something altogether different.

"Fuck you feel so good," he growled down at Sherlock, voice low and detached in a way that let Sherlock know he wasn't entirely aware of what he was saying. "I'm going to fuck you so hard that you never forget you're mine. Ride this perfect arse of yours so hard you can feel me for days… I want to mark you… bite you until you're clenching around me so tight I can barely move… come inside you so deep you'll fucking taste me… fill you up… I want to hear you scream my name, want you to beg me to ride you harder… I'm going to fuck you until you can feel how much I love you-"

Sherlock, who'd been a writhing, shuddering mass beneath John, reveling in his words, cock throbbing with pleasure, came instantly. The impact of it resounded through him more sharply than a bullet ricochet. He threw his head back and howled with the force of it. Then hoarse words were dripping from his lips mindlessly, fulfilling John's desire to hear him beg h-harder… fuck me harder… John… John… John!

The force of Sherlock's muscles gripping him pulled John from his lust fueled haze. He watched, breathless, as Sherlock came utterly undone beneath him. His own climax roared through him, forcing him to spill himself inside Sherlock again and again. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. This was what he'd been longing for. This was what his fantasies were made of. Sherlock, shuddering in ecstasy, coming with John's cock buried in him to the hilt. Both of them partaking in the pleasure.

Slowly, bodies still quaking in aftershocks, they began to come back down to earth. John nuzzled the crook of Sherlock's neck, nipping softly at his ear and then flicking his tongue against it to make Sherlock moan. Slowly, he slid back until their bodies were separated and then collapsed on the bed beside him. For long minutes, neither of them spoke. Finally, John broke the silence.

"That seemed… good."

"You-" Sherlock's voice broke and he cleared his throat. "You could say that." He chuckled, the motion making his body clench with one more burst of pleasure. His low moan sent an answering jolt of pleasure through John.

"So… was there anything in particular that make that… ah, work?"

"It was a combination of things," Sherlock answered evasively. Should he tell John that while the overall tone and force of the tryst had him well on his way, what had actually pushed him over the edge was John's declaration of love? Really, he wasn't even sure why it had affected him so strongly. He knew how John felt about him. Not in those words, no, but near enough. Sentiment was foolish, a defect that only mattered to others. Not Sherlock. He shouldn't care that John loved him. He already had everything he wanted from their relationship. It was immaterial. Irrelevant. And yet hearing those words while John thrust into him had made him come so hard he'd seen stars.

"Was it the position? I shouldn't have been so rough in one we haven't tried before-"

"Don't castigate yourself for it when we both so obviously enjoyed it," Sherlock interrupted him. "The position was… good. Very good. It proved quite effective at internal stimulation, and the force with which you were moving was part of that."

"Oh."

"Oh?" Sherlock finally turned a little, grimacing at the slick spot beneath him.

"You just got very clinical."

"I'm always clinical."

"No, you're not," John chuckled. "In a situation like this, it usually means you're covering for something you're uncomfortable about."

"Of all the times in which your lack of observation skills would be useful," Sherlock muttered petulantly.

"Are you… embarrassed that you came?"

"Of course not. It was more than satisfactory, and the culmination of something you have been working towards with great effort. I'm pleased. More than." His tone softened a little at the end, his lips quirking into a slight smile.

"Okay, then," John said, his own lips twitching into a pleased smirk, "what else? You said it was a combination. The position, and how… er, rough I was. What else? I want to be able to do this again."

"Some of it… may have been you… talking."

"Oh?" John asked, his smirk deepening into a satisfied grin.

"Don't look so smug."

"Can't help it. I know you like when I talk dirty to you."

"So crass," Sherlock griped.

"Hey, you're the one who likes it!"

"Please, John. As if you wouldn't come in your pants if I deigned to whisper filth into your ear."

"Oh, I'm not saying that I wouldn't. I'm sure I would. But I know that you like it, too." His smile faltered a little and he scratched the back of his neck, a self-conscious gesture. "So, ah, what did I say?" Sherlock barked out a laugh of derision. "Come on, you know I don't always know what I'm saying. I get… caught up in the moment."

"I am aware, John." It was Sherlock's turn to smirk.

"So. What was it? I'm guessing it was something particularly kinky or you'd have told me straight away," he teased.

"You did mention something about marking me as yours… making me scream… coming inside me so hard that I'd be able to taste you. Which, I might add, is physically impossible. Strange that it should be so arousing, considering."

"Wow. I didn't hold anything back, did I?" John had the grace to look somewhat abashed, though the expression was tinged with a hint of pride. "And you liked that, then? Even the idea of me marking you?"

"With your teeth?" Sherlock found himself a little surprised to be experiencing a coil of pleasure in his belly. "Yes. It would seem so."

"I'll… keep that in mind." He shifted, liking the idea perhaps a little too much himself. He could already see Sherlock's perfect alabaster skin marred with purple love bites and red, crescent shaped indents from his teeth. Marks of belonging. Of ownership. His sated cock twitched. "So good positioning and dirty talk was the winning combination. I'm glad we finally worked it out."

"Yes," Sherlock replied softly. Was it dishonest not to tell John the whole truth? It wasn't as though those two wouldn't be enough in the future, he was sure. Still, while he had no problem with dishonesty as a means to an ends - or simple convenience, really - in general, it seemed distasteful with John. He'd kept things from him before. This seemed… bigger, though.

"Sherlock?" John's gentle, concerned voice only reiterated what Sherlock's usually indifferent conscience was telling him.

"There… there was one more thing."

"Something I said? That you liked?"

"...yes."

"Whatever it is, you don't have to be embarrassed by it. I'm the one who said it. And I'm glad for anything that I say that turns you on." When Sherlock still looked reticent, John stroked his cheek softly. "Really, love."

"It- it was that," Sherlock finally managed to say, hating the flush he could feel spreading across his cheekbones. This was ridiculous. They were insipid, meaningless words. Except not meaningless. Not from John. Not at all. "You said… you said you wanted to make me feel how much you loved me."

John drew back, his mouth open slightly in shock. His initial reaction, after being dumbfounded that he had said something so fucking important without even realizing it, was to apologize. He knew how Sherlock felt about emotion. About love. He'd all but admitted it weeks before, and while he'd made it perfectly clear that he would say it any time Sherlock wanted to hear it, they hadn't mentioned it any more. John had just assumed that Sherlock preferred it that way.

But no. If it had driven Sherlock to orgasm, surely that meant it was something he wanted to hear. Or was it a kink? After all, it wasn't as though Sherlock actually wanted to be able to taste John's ejaculate from penetration. It was the concept, the kink, maybe even the dirtiness of it. That was all. So where did that leave him?

"So, that was… something you liked hearing?"

"Considering it was those specific words that were the actual cause of what I can assure you was an exceptionally intense orgasm, I think it's safe to say yes."

The overly clinical speech was back. He was embarrassed. Nervous, maybe? John wanted to touch him, to pull him close, but there was something important he needed to know first. "And outside of sex? Do you think- is that something you would want to hear other times?"

There was a silence that seemed to stretch, longer than John knew it could possibly be. "Provided…" Sherlock cleared his throat slightly and tried to feign indifference. "Provided it was meant and not just said arbitrarily."

"Sherlock." John's pulse was pounding in his ears, the tentative, hopeful look on Sherlock's face making his heart twist. He gripped Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him close, tucking those riotous curls beneath his chin. "Of course. Of course I mean them. Always. Surely you know- you must already know that I…" He pulled back just enough to look Sherlock in the eyes, hoping that there would be no room for doubt. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I always will. I probably always have, and was just too thick to realize it. I love every inch of your gorgeous fucking body, every word that comes out of your beautiful, pretentious mouth, every thought in that sexy, incredible, brilliant mind of yours. I. Love. You."

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed, he trembled slightly, his eyes dilated, then the dark lashes lowered. His hand rose up and traced the line of John's jaw, the ridge of his cheekbone, the shell of his ear. He took one sharp breath, then another, ignoring the foolish burning in his eyes, the tightness in his chest.

"John…"

"You don't have to say anything, Sherlock. I don't expect any more from you than what you can give. I know that you care-"

"John!" The bite of the word halted John's rambling, and he smiled a little ruefully. "I can't say that what I feel for you is the fairy tale version of love that most people know their infatuation as. Love, as we know it, is unquantifiable and therefore irrelevant. It is a release of endorphins at the sight of someone familiar. It is a chemical reaction to security, to familiarity, a programmed response instilled in us in an attempt to perpetuate the human race. Obviously for us, that isn't a factor."

A slow smile had begun to spread across John's face. "Just spit it out, Sherlock."

"I've become accustomed to you, reliant on you, able to look to you to fulfill all my needs and desires. You are the abstract concept of home distilled to one single, moving thing. You are the person - the only person - my body craves, helplessly and with ever increasing fervor. You are my conductor of light, the voice that pulls me back when darkness threatens to consume me, the presence that keeps me grounded through it all."

"Say it," John whispered, feeling tears prick his eyes.

"What I feel for you is not the overused, misconstrued, unrealistic idea of love that seems to overwhelm the masses. I… revere you. I venerate you. I adore you. You are the only higher power to which I hold myself accountable. You are that which I cherish above all others, the only person whose esteem truly matters to me. The pinnacle of all which I hold dear." He stopped, taking a breath and letting himself be swallowed up by the depth of his feeling. "If I wanted to condense that down to a single line, if I needed to compress a boundless, indescribable feeling to three little words, if you wanted to hear it, distilled to it's most basic form but no less true, no less whole, then… then I would say, I love you." He closed his eyes against the sight of John's tears, against the sensation of falling and flying and being wholly secure, for the first time in his life. "I love you, John Watson."

XXX

An orgasm through penetration might have won the race, but manual stimulation during sex was what bore out. John liked the feeling of Sherlock's cock in his hand. He liked the twitch of it on a particularly well aimed thrust, the pulse of it as he came. Once they mastered it, he became addicted to holding Sherlock through his orgasm, urging it along.

There were still times when Sherlock wasn't particularly eager for sex but still happily spread his legs (or bent over, as was often the case) for John. There were times now, too, when John was the one who was appeasing Sherlock's needs when his own weren't pressing.

They had learned to switch, something John never would have thought he could enjoy, but which he found rather fantastic. They explored kinks, some that they never felt inclined to try again, and some that became commonplace for them.

There were still fights, huge rows in which one or both of them walked out, swearing the other was insufferable. But they always came back. And after the first one, they discovered the joy of makeup sex.

It wasn't until years after that first drunken fuck, years after the elaborate declaration of love, years after Mycroft discovered it (which had taken him months, a fact of which Sherlock was endlessly proud) that the rest of the world realized the depth of their intimacy with each other. Lestrade had burst into the flat to discover John, teeth sunk into Sherlock's shoulder, one hand wrapped around his throat and the other wielding a riding crop, fucking the world's only consulting detective into nirvana. He'd stumbled back, whacking his head against the doorframe so hard he thought it might just erase the incredibly erotic sight that had burned itself into his brain. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard Sherlock's husky laugh.

"Pleasure as always, Greg," rang in his ears all the way across the street. He supposed it made a twisted kind of sense, considering it was Sherlock, that the only time he would get the DI's name right was when he was skewered on John Watson's cock.

The rest of Scotland Yard didn't have the pleasure of seeing Sherlock and John naked and mid coitus to find out. Most of them heard through word of mouth from the few that had been at the crime scene when Sherlock arrived out of breath and having forgotten to remove the collar John had placed on him three hours earlier. Even that perhaps might not have been enough confirmation - after all, rumors about them had been in existence since the day they'd first met - except that John the matching leash half stuffed in his jacket pocket.

The final, no doubt, cash in all your bets, definitive proof came out to the rest of the world another year after that when a particularly tenacious reporter discovered a marriage certificate, filed quietly and without fuss, witnessed by one Mrs. Hudson and a Mr. Mycroft Holmes. It made headlines throughout Great Britain for weeks, during which the couple in question took an extended vacation, happy to be out of the limelight.


End file.
